Introductions to the Introspective
by Inks Inc
Summary: A more direct exploration of the many escapades of Team Gibbs. WARNING: Contains Spanking/Corporal Punishment. (Originally a one-shot, now expanding) Now Complete.
1. Chapter 1

Knowing that the knots in my stomach weren't going to go away, I let out a soft sigh, before padding over to the mirror to assess if I looked as bad as I felt. Looking at the gaunt, almost sunken looking reflection staring back at me, I get my answer. It shouldn't be as bad as this, I should be _used_ to this…feeling. I tell myself that, over and over again and yet, the acid in my gut churns and churns. I turn in defeat, leave the sanctity of the bathroom, and trot out into the hallway. My directions, are directionless.

I have no place to be.

I'm where I need to be, but…I'm also where I'd give a thousand winged horses to run screaming from. He'd be home soon, and then, not even such majestic beasts as flying equines could save me. I shudder as I pad down the stairs of his well worn home. Every step is familiar, I know it was well as I do my own apartment. Avoiding the last step to save myself the ear splitting creak, I find myself meandering into the comfortingly unchanging living room.

The couch accedes to my familiar frame, sinking around me to allow for optimum comfort. I curl up in an unobtrusive ball, tucking myself in to my torso, seeking a warmth that isn't physical. A warmth that can't be conjured with warm blankets, and hot milk. No, the warmth I seek is an internal one. A temperature that arises from an earthquake of forgiveness, before seeping beautifully from its own epicentre.

How long I would have to wait for that warmth, was indeterminate.

I'd screwed up before, many a time actually, now I come to think of it. Actually, I don't want to think about those times. This time, the time I'm _in,_ is all consuming. The look on his face when I'd resurfaced with that perp, the indecipherable surge of emotion that seeped from those eyes…they weren't something I could think about, whilst thinking about other things. That contortion of facial muscles, that blazing blue eyed fury…they required a singular mind track.

Hugging my legs, like I used to do as a child, I groaned into the headrest my knees provided.

There weren't many things that could have my stomach jostling like an incessant ebbing and flowing of the most truculent waters. There weren't many things that could render me incapable of inhaling an extra pepperoni, cheese crust pizza. There _definitely_ weren't many things that would leave me feeling so cloaked in guilt, that I couldn't even muster up the energy to throw on a film to fill the deafening silence the empty, oh so empty, house provided.

But…the look, the terror and fear that had etched onto one Leroy Jethro Gibbs' face as he'd clapped eyes on my gasping, shuddering body… _that_ was an exception. I mean, it's not as if I'm not a good swimmer, because I am. Pretty darn decent actually. And it's not as if I _actually_ would have drowned, because, I wouldn't. Well, it was a _very_ slim possibility at best. And it's not as if the risk I took, the opportunity I seized…wouldn't pay off.

Because it would.

That cretin, that human trafficking piece of filth that I had wrenched from the clutches of an icy DC Marina, he had information. He held, in his twisted little head, more information on the routes and pipelines of the Eastern European trafficking trade than we could ever hope to garner with a year's intelligence gathering. To allow him to drown, would be to throw that information down the drain.

It was an admittedly uncalculated risk, and I admit, I took it. But…that's not the whole story. Sighing some more, I hug my knees tighter to my chest and commit to this damned introspection Abby is always harping on about. Mostly because, well…mostly because right now, I have no one else to talk to. But myself, that is. And well, I guess you could say I'm a talkative kind of guy. Well…I think a _lot_ of people would say I'm a _very_ talkative kind of guy…so, here goes.

I knew that dragging Ivan from the ocean would lead to a break in the case. I knew that, I swear, I knew that. But…if I'm being totally honest with myself, and I am, because really…who else is here? The main reason…the main motivation of my swan dive, wasn't the case. Wasn't the age old argument of end's justifying means. And it sure as hell wasn't for the thrill of heavily polluted water forcing its way into my jaded, plague ridden lungs.

Nestling my head deeper into my knees, I find myself exhaling in frustration.

I didn't do it to play the hero. I didn't do it because I'm a federal agent, and that's my job. Though, I _am_ a federal agent, a good one, and that _is_ my job. Man…my knee caps are kind of hard…anyhow, no. The main motivation for my aqua aerobics…I pause, groaning in self contained embarrassment, burying my face further into my headrest.

The main motivation was…hell, I thought it would make him proud of me.

Thought it might elicit that rare "atta boy," that rightly or wrongly, meant the world to me. You see, my own father…he's what you'd call…dysfunctional, maybe? I don't know the PC terms for these things anymore, in my head, where PC terms don't live…the man is, was, and always will be a sperm donor. Now, please, don't get me wrong. There are dashingly good looks, a chiselled jaw and _great_ hair to be thankful for from said secretions, but still…as fatherhood went, my father…he just, went.

To Paris, Berlin…hell, even Wales.

Anywhere were there were dubious business opportunities, and even more dubious women.

But they were the good times. The times when I would be free to be me, without watching my words…my actions, my clothes. Free to be a nine year old, with a gap in his teeth and a C on his report card. My mom…well, she's dead you see. Died when I was a pup myself, but…she was a good woman. A great mother. Anyway, that's why those "atta boy's," from a self confessed functional mute are kinda important to me.

Maybe they shouldn't be, but…they are.

They're rare, few and far between, but I remember everyone I've ever gotten. When I came spluttering up about the water's surface though, I knew…it wasn't an "atta boy," kinda moment. Gibbs…was nuclear level pissed. Once he saw that I was breathing, that Ivan was safely restrained, the worry slipped from his face, to be replaced by that kind of anger that always had my intestines clenching.

The…"wait till I get home," anger.

Cliché, right?

Wrong.

I was literally, waiting for him to get home. I knew I was going to be banished to an inane work up from Ducky. I knew I was going to subjected to a torturous, though well intentioned, British lecture. I had tried to argue, foolishly, but my damned _teeth_ just would not stop _chattering._ I mean, the water was cold, granted. But I didn't think it was _that_ cold.

I didn't really think at all, now that I think about it.

And I guess, when I survived all the poking and prodding, I knew I was going to be sent back to Gibbs' place. When he's _that_ mad, he tends to send me away for a bit to cool down. Which is good, I guess. But…it sure _does_ make the whole horror that more horrific. Pulling my knees closer to me, I sigh once more. He's going to want answers, and I'm not sure I want to give them. Of course, not wanting to give them and giving them were about as related as a cat and a mouse. Answers would be given, answers that even to my own mind, now, sound idiotic. I feel my face flush as I shut my eyes tight.

How in the name of all that is holy am I going to tell _Gibbs…_ that I just wanted to make him proud?

My face is on fire, and the groan dies in my throat.

A sudden, bright option dances down in front of my eyes. I squint into my knees, my breaths becoming slightly ragged.

I could lie.

I ponder this for a moment, assessing the plethora of pros and cons that come with that option.

It would save me intense embarrassment for one. I don't do embarrassment well. The fact that my face could fry an egg and I'm _alone_ would signify that. Plus… I go all…well, _goofy_ I guess, and start screeching movie quotes, here there and everywhere. Relevant movie quotes mind you, _great_ movie quotes actually. But…it tends to grate on the boss-man's nerves.

It would also be believable. I've been reckless before. I've jumped off things that people should _not_ jump off, it's not as if this dip today is _that_ out of character. I could easily plaster that bright smile on my face, force it to meet my eyes. I could play the frat boy routine I have down to an art. I could shrug nonchalantly, and pretend to be utterly unperturbed by my actions.

My groan is muffled by the tight compress of my bony knees.

Gibbs wouldn't buy that.

I had a feeling, more than just a feeling actually, that he'd sussed out my masks a long time ago. That he knew the ultra confident, ultra suave Tony DiNozzo was just a façade. That things… _did_ get to me. He would know that I was slipping on that mask, and he would know how to pierce through it.

I swallow hard, and run my hands through my hair in sheer frustration.

If I lied, he would know. He always knew, for crying out loud he was _Gibbs._ But…right now, all I want to do is lie. To charm and wiggle my way out of the truth. To accept whatever I had coming, and move on. But…I know the man won't leave at that. He never does. He'll demand to know the _why_ behind the what, and I'll have no choice but to admit that I have a pathetic desire to see him smile that proud smile at me.

God, what the hell is wrong with me?

I'm a grown ass man. I shouldn't _need_ positive reinforcement from a boss that didn't like to use too many words even to order his coffee. I shouldn't _want_ to please _him._ I should just want to do my job, and go home. Like every _other_ normal person. But…that wasn't enough for me. The job…is kinda more than a job. Other people go home to their partners, maybe their kids, maybe even a dog. I…go home to an empty apartment.

So, the job is important to me.

I couldn't lie. Even if he didn't call me on it, which he would. But, even if he didn't, I'd never be able to survive more than one day with it inside me. I'd tried it once, oh a few years back. I'd gotten away with it whatever I'd done too, that was back before Gibbs knew me the way he does now. He'd believed me, and I'd come away unscathed.

Physically.

Mentally, I spent twenty fours in agony. The easy acceptance of my lie had clung to my gut, making me feel rampantly ill. I'd clawed my way through a pit full of excuses and self assuring rationales, before eventually finding the guts to come clean. It…hadn't been pretty, but I sure as hell felt a lot better afterwards.

Well, mentally anyway.

Swinging my now pretty cramped legs out from under my clingy torso, I shuffle to my feet in search of something to quench my sudden thirst. When I get nervous, I get thirsty. What I'd really love now is a beer, well, a couple of beers actually. But…that's probably not a good idea. Not being at work due to an apparent inability to follow orders would _not_ be helped by being drunk, absent from work, due to an apparent inability to follow orders.

I feel the exasperated grunt in my throat before it's released.

Standing and appraising the entire contents of Gibbs' fridge, I wonder, and not for the first time, how the man is above ground. Sniffing gingerly at an open carton of milk, the recoiling in disgust is instant as I spy the well exceeded use by date. My gaze shifts to a dubious looking bottle of orange juice, before giving it up as a bad job and grabbing a solitary bottled water.

Just as the first drops gently seep down my throat, there's a noise.

A familiar noise.

…a now deadly noise.

The noise of a handle turning downwards, and a stubbornly squeaky door shifting forwards.

The water catches in my throat. He's early…oh _god_ he's _so_ early. I'm not ready. I'm choking. Leaning over the sink, I feel my eyes burn with the effort of my retching. The water, has most certainly gone down the wrong way.

Maybe…even water is afraid of an enraged LJ Gibbs.

My spluttering and snorting over the sink is suddenly aided, by a warm hand on my back, delivering expert taps to expel the blockage. My wind pipe settles down gratefully, and a steady flow of oxygen once again finds its way into my lungs. Straightening up, the bottle is carefully taken from my hands as an equally careful gaze is trained over my face.

I gulp.

I know Gibbs, I know him well.

He's calm now, in control. He's concerned about my spluttering and heaving, but the anger…is in the back of his eyes. I can practically see it, practically isolate it from the bright blue spark that resides there. Suddenly, my oxygen supply isn't quite so generous as my stomach keels over once more, and my gaze finds the floor.

"Hey boss…you're early."

God.

Is that the most intelligent thing I can think of to say? You're _early?_ I feel my face grow hot, as I keep my gaze trained resolutely on a scrap of the kitchen floor. You can really find the most inane things the most interesting when you want to. I've found that out. Over the years, I've found various aspects of the boss-man's house more interesting than even the best James Bond film.

Ok, maybe not more interesting than say, Goldfinger, but certainly right up there with… Tomorrow Never Dies.

I feel my nose wrinkle.

Even in the current moment, my love for Sean Connery supersedes all.

He's talking, crap, he's talking.

I'm focussing, feeling my eyes narrow with the effort. His tone, is gentle, and it somehow makes me feel worse. I always feel even crappier when he goes all gentle giant on me. I guess…somehow, no matter how hard he tries, I can't _totally_ shake the fear that he'll react to my many escapades in the same way Senior did.

So far, it's never happened.

He's bawled me out, he's tanned my butt…but, never viciously. Never in anger, and not that he'd ever admit it, but…always _gently._ It's weird I guess, but I suppose everyone has their private side, even Gibbs. There's a difference between the work Gibbs, and the home Gibbs. God I'm rambling now, I always get super pensive when I'm up the creek.

He's waiting for an answer.

To his quiet "you ok, Tony?"

I swallow.

Looking up, knowing that eye contact was inevitable, I nod my head slowly.

"Yes boss," I mutter, even though I can barely remember what ok feels like. Even though I was ok, just a couple of hours ago, it feels like a lifetime ago. He nods then, in a careful pretence of acceptance, and jerks his head in the direction of the living room.

"Go, I'll be in to you in a minute."

Gulping, words form in my throat, and die there. Clamping my mouth shut, I turn on my heel and walk slowly into the room I'd just vacated. Usually, this room was a comfortable one. We'd often just hang here. Me, Abby, and Tim, Ziva. When we'd bully Gibbs into letting us commandeer his TV, and rent something or other.

It was a great room, then.

Now, I hated it.

I'd gotten more lectures in this room than a student in a theatre hall in Harvard. My butt had often, so very often, entered this room at moderate temperature, yet leaving with a tropical glow. This was a time that I loathed this room. Loathed my usual spot on the couch, loathed my usual prime view of the set.

It was just…loathsome.

Throwing myself down, making a mental note to enjoy the ability of sitting, I chew my fingernails nervously. That's another thing I do, when I'm nervous. I go all Hannibal Lector on my cuticles. They were in fairly good condition at the moment, I hadn't been in enough trouble to warrant this kind of one on one attention in a while. But my sharp teeth are bearing down on them now, and soon they would be as chewed up as the chewing out I was about to get.

Before I could really get into the rhythm of self gnawing, I was suddenly no longer alone.

Sweeping back into the room, Gibbs placed himself wordlessly in the chair opposite mine.

The so dubbed "lecturing throne."

Abby had come up with that one, and Tim, Ziva and I had vehemently agreed.

I don't think the boss knows his chairs nickname.

At least, I hope he doesn't.

I'm digressing, my thoughts spreading out like wildfire, a wildfire I have to contain, because, he's speaking. His voice is still calm, still in control. But…its seeping with a disappointment that cuts me to the quick. Angry shrieking I can take, calm disappointment, not so much. I glance longingly at my nails, but leave them be. Gibbs has this thing about… _self mutilation,_ as he calls it.

"Why did you do it Tony?" he's asking, "you heard me order you to pull back, and you disobeyed me."

His eyes linger over mine and I feel my stomach try out for the circus.

"I want to know why, and I want to know why, _right now."_

His voice is taking on an edge now, and I squirm somewhat in my seat. How could I tell him why…how could I tell him that I'm a grown ass man, who still wants…still _needs_ to hear "atta job sport," from a man, more of a father to me than my own ever was.

This guy…sitting across from me, was a frigging _Marine._

So I swallow, and I contemplate, and I ponder countries that don't have extradition agreements.

But then I'm talking, and I don't even mean to. It's like I can't help it. I'm trained to talk when this man asks. I'm not trained _not_ to talk when this man asks. So I take in a deep breath, and I open my mouth.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, knowing that the no apologies rule has no bearing right now. "I did hear you, and I did it anyway…that was my bad, I get it. It won't happen again."

Gibbs sighed.

Not his usual, _I've only had eight coffees and I'm going to kill someone_ sigh, but a deep…pent up exhalation. I shrink back, not being able to read this sigh. I'm pretty good at gauging both the verbal and non verbal nuances that make up this man, but _that_ sigh…is not one I'm familiar with. I think, maybe, it's a combination of different sighs.

His angry one, his exasperated one…and his _sad_ one?

Why would he be _sad?_

Familiar insecurities suddenly grip me, and I stare down at my hands.

Is he sad because I… _survived?_ Is he sad because he still has me for a senior field agent? And not some hot shot, brains to burn replacement from Stanford or some place? I feel myself redden, and gaze even more ferociously at my twitching hands.

Before I can analyse these thoughts any further, his voice is wafting over me once again.

"I know what you did Tony," he's muttering, "I want to _know_ why you did it." He paused, and I know he's running those eyes over my downwards, slumped poise. "Tony…" he continues quietly, "I need you to look at me son."

I still.

It's not unusual for Gibbs to call me son, or Tim for that matter. His endearments are often rare, but that one is certainly the most frequent. Although it's an Americanism as old as Columbus himself, the warm, fuzzy feeling that stirs inside me when I hear it, always remains the same.

Always.

I look up. I look up slowly and chew my lip as his gaze never leaves my face. I don't know what to say. On one hand, I know he'll know if he doesn't get the truth. And I know he deserves the truth. On the other, I don't let people in. Ever.

Yet…Gibbs had rapidly, and continued in such rapidity to knock down my walls. He's still staring, and I find my lips parting. The truth is coming, I can feel it. I can feel the factual words sliding up my throat, working their way towards their escape. I can't even clamp down on them, they're pushing and steaming ahead of their own accord.

Like they always did, where the man across from me was concerned.

"I…I just…" I trail off, my face resembling the most sun kissed of beet as he stares at me studiously.

"You just, what?" he prompts, when he sees that the words are stalled in my windpipe, that they're halted in their gate. The minute he prompts, the words are loosened by his tone. As if it were some form of lubricant, and they're trundling again. Shooting out of my mouth before I could muster the good sense to shove them back in.

"I guess…I just…wanted you to be proud of me," I whisper awkwardly, feeling sick to my stomach in apprehension of the oncoming scorn fest I'm sure is coming my way. His face is blank, impassive as he digests my muted words. He doesn't speak for a moment, merely pondering me thoughtfully, his hands running absently over the arm rest of his chair.

"You wanted me to be proud of you?" he eventually murmurs questioningly, his head tilted towards me.

I chew my lip and berate them for being drunk at the wheel. They were supposed to be damned the goal keepers of my brain, and they were letting in own goals, left right and centre. I try and school my face into nonchalance, and jerk my shoulders in self deprecating chagrin. But…it's a half-hearted attempt. Anyone else, and I would have pulled out the charm, deflected their attention, removed the openness I had created.

There was no point in any of that, now.

Not with Gibbs.

I eventually settle for an affirmative nod, returning my gaze downwards.

This, was potentially, the most mortifying experience of my NCIS based existence. And that _includes_ that time I accidently tripped naked from the mens showers into a communal area. I push that sudden flashback from my mind with the stern reminder that in the physique department, I have _nothing_ to be embarrassed about.

He's talking again, and my eyes swivel up of their own accord.

"Tony…" he pauses, and pinched the bridge of his nose, "do you realise, that there is not _one_ person on my team that I'm _not_ proud of?" His eyes are brimming with some untold emotion, as I stare blankly back at him.

Before I'm burdened with the task of finding some reply, he continues.

"Aw hell, DiNozzo…are you really going to make go all Oprah on your ass right now?"

…wait, he _knows…Oprah?_

My confusion as to this astounding fact, must have been misinterpreted, as he sighed in defeat.

"Fine," he mutters, with a certain _tinge_ to his own hue. "I'm…proud of you, all the time. Not especially today, or especially yesterday. All the time. You don't _need_ to pull this hair brained, half assed stunts of yours to get my approval, Tony."

His voice was getting a bit firmer, and I swallow nervously.

"You were handpicked, by me."

He stares intently at me.

"Any time that another _suicidal_ idea to make me go all warm and fuzzy crosses your mind, would you _please_ just remember that fact. Because, I swear, if the next MacGyver stunt doesn't kill you… _I_ will. You got that?"

…wait, he _knows…MacGyver?_

My confusion as to this astounding fact, must again have been misinterpreted, as he again sighed in defeat.

"Tony!" he barks, and I jolt back into the present moment. "I asked have you _got that?"_

My head bobs up and down as if for apples, as my eyes widen of their own accord. "I got it, boss," I reply quietly, feeling vaguely _warm and fuzzy_ myself. Boss man _is_ proud of me. I shake my head in chagrin. A small part of me already knew that, and I just _had_ to go ahead and test that theory out.

Like a damned kid that just _had_ to take apart a radio, to see what was inside.

He's running his hands through his hair, and I groan internally. That's a sure sign that's he's getting close to dispensing with the talking part of affairs. Though, in all actuality, _this_ particular talking point hadn't been all that bad.

Oh wait…he's not done.

"You do _not_ disobey me in the field like that," he snaps, sounding _much_ more Gibbs-ish. "You do _not_ place yourself in reckless, heedless and pointless danger _ever_ again. I don't care _what_ information that piece of filth may or may not have had, we would have got it eventually anyway. You had _no_ business throwing yourself in after him, and you definitely had _no_ business pointedly ignoring me when I shouted at you not to."

I flinch, and he takes a breath.

"Do you _understand_ me?" he demands calmly, and I nod my head as fervently as all kinds of possible.

"Yes boss," I hear myself _squawking,_ before groaning and looking back down at the floor. I have a nice voice, a very pleasant voice actually, if I do say so myself. But…when I'm being yelled at, it instantly goes all high pitched and squeaky. Before I could lament further on tones and the like, I note that he's not done.

"You let me down," he says quietly, and my stomach plummets. "But more importantly, you let yourself down out there. Tony…" he rubs his face in frustration and I feel even worse. "This job…is damned well dangerous enough without treating your life like a joke. You're a great agent, with great instincts and reflexes…but, if you push your luck too far, reality's gonna bite you in the ass. You hear me?"

I nod mutely.

I heard. I heard as well as if he'd roared it from the rooftops.

"I don't ever want to be in a position again, where I have to watch you in jeopardy. Needless jeopardy, and not be able to do a damned thing. I don't _ever_ want to have Tim or Ziva in a position where they have to watch their teammate nearly _drown,_ and not be in a position to help. You _knew_ we literally were struggling to keep _both_ the perps and the victims' safe, and you did what you did anyway. Knowing you had no back up, and _using_ that fact to your advantage."

If there was ever to be a sinkhole in urban DC, I would give my life's savings for it to happen now.

Right now.

So I could throw myself in it, and never be seen again. The guilt was writhing around my stomach, as I placed myself in their shoes.

God…I was a selfish ass.

"Do you hear me, Tony?" Gibbs thundered suddenly, breaking through my sinkhole wishes. Nodding instantly, I study my nail beds and offer a very subdued "yes boss, I hear you."

He nods slowly, and studies me silently. Suddenly, he stands and motions for me to do the same. I comply, surprised slightly by the strong supportive nature of my knees. Usually they all but knocked together with nerves in apprehension of what I _knew_ was coming. But now…they operated to their fullest capabilities.

Hell, even my _knees_ knew I deserved what I was about to get.

He's moving closer to me now, and I brace myself.

His gentle hand under my chin, tipping it upwards is therefore a bit of a surprise and it shows in my eyes. He runs a gaze over me, and I stare silently. "You…drive me crazy," he suddenly ground out, "I'm tempted to kill you myself at least once a day. But…I will do whatever it takes to keep you around, and safe. Even from yourself. Which is why you're about to get your butt roasted. Not because I'm angry, but because I need you to learn that your life is just as damned valuable as the next guys'."

He removed his hand, and took in a breath, clearly uncomfortable with such sentimental speeches, because his next actions were considerably gruffer. As his hands moves towards his belt, I took a deep breath of my own and gestured towards the sofa, the arm rest of which had supported my torso as my ass was torn up more times than I care to remember.

His simple nod, and the sleek removal of the leather belt answered me.

I make to move towards my own doom, but he suddenly reaches out and catches my arm. Ruffling a hand through my hair, the part where he usually slaps, he looks at me seriously. "Do _not_ make me do this again, for this reason, ever again son. You understand me?"

His tone is gentle again, and the guilt within me reaches the damned stars.

Nodding firmly, I manage to croak out the requisite "yes boss," and he releases me. I stride to the couch in record time, desperate to get the whole ordeal over and done with. Behind me, I can hear him shrug out of his suit jacket as I bend myself over the arm rest, despondent at how familiar the position is. Grabbing an equally familiar cushion, I bury my face in it and brace myself.

The sounds of the belt doubling over in his hand are oddly magnified, but before I can process the apprehension that comes with it, a warm hand is placed on my back. I'm never sure if that hand is supposed to be restraining, or comforting, though over time I guess I've learned it's both.

The air is sliced, and all of a sudden there's a loud crack.

As usual, the pain doesn't register straight away.

Just the crack.

…two milliseconds later, the pain _does_ register, and I hiss involuntarily. Before I could even get over the stinging pain of the first lick, the second descends, and I sink further into the cushion. Gibbs isn't holding back, and I know that sitting is off the agenda for quite a while. I clench my teeth as a particularly fierce blow lands directly on its predecessor, and nearly inhale a mouthful of cushion as I try to suppress the yelp of pain.

But as the next stripe lands, I don't even have the awareness to care if God or Beast heard me.

The yelp come whimper was torn out of my throat, and the hand instinctively pressed down firmer upon my back. Before I could completely recover from the surging pain spreading across my backside, another lick fell, and then another. To my shame, tears sprang up in my eyes. Gibbs' belt was old school, made from heavy, thick leather.

The kind, that when careered against your butt at speed, tended to make an impression.

A strangled, "boss…I'm sorry…. _please,"_ escaped me before I could help it, and my facial cheeks turned nearly as bright as their butt counterparts. I had every intention, _every intention,_ of taking this punishment like a man.

Quietly.

But…I just can't _help_ it. The pain was clinging to every imaginable surface, and there was no escaping it. Literally, no escaping it. Because the hand on my back was effectively blocking my irrepressible squirming.

The tears are dangerously close to the rims of my eyes now.

I blink, and yelp at the same time as the next one catches me on the under curve, and they're streaming down my face. I've been strapped before, many times before, but this is definitely in the top five of _painful._ I might realise, later, that the other four had something to do with me risking my neck, needlessly, as well.

My shoulders are shaking with quiet sobbing now, and I could almost _swear_ I heard a reluctant grunt behind me, as the belt fell yet again. My thin sweats that I threw on in the changing room, after Ducky's prodding and poking, are doing _nothing_ to stem the onslaught. I send a silent prayer, accompanied by yelps and whimpers that I wouldn't be told to drop them.

That would _really_ suck.

Just as I was thinking that awful thought, five rapid, forceful licks caught me one after the other on my sit spots. Abandoning all pretence at stoicism, I sob into the cushion that already holds a wealth of my sorrow, and lay limply over the arm rest. I can feel my torso deflate, as the pain soars up into nearly intolerable levels.

When he spoke, I expected to be ordered to stand and lose the pants.

However, just one, rather gentle word was spoken.

"Up."

I draw in a raggedy breath, and coughed heavily into the pillow. I don't…I don't _want_ Gibbs to see me like this. All red and puffy eyed, and generally the pinnacle of misery. However, I don't get much choice in the matter. I barely register a dull thud, as the belt was thrown down, and gentle hands pulling me softly from my perch.

Swaying slightly, wincing as the pain seemed to _increase,_ I whimper where I stand.

I find my voice, albeit a croaky and broken one, and fix a very sad, concerned looking Gibbs with a watery stare. "Is…is that it?" I hiccough, swiping a hand across my face in confusion. Getting away with a fully clothed, albeit scorching rear end, was not something I'd pictured in today's…discussion.

He keeps a hand on my shoulders, and eyes my studiously.

"You learn your lesson, Tony?" he asks gently, and I blink rapidly in response.

…I'm pretty I sure I just learned all the lessons in all the world, as I nod my head slowly.

"Yes boss," I mumble quietly, resisting the urge to reach back and rub some of the evil sting out of my poor, besieged rear. He smiles softly at me then, and crooks his finger in my direction. I step forwards tentatively, hissing as the action causes my butt to enflame further. But…all that is forgotten, as he draws me into his arms, for a rare hug, and holds me tightly to him.

Resting my head on his shoulder, he holds me tighter still, and speaks very softly, but I catch every syllable.

"Then that's it, son, that's it."

…

A/N: Nervous, _very nervous,_ author alert! I have never, ever written in the first person before, and tbh, I'm not sure what possessed me to write this. I just found myself starting and couldn't stop, it's a _very_ different writing experience to third person, and I have to say, I really enjoyed it. It's just a one shot for now, I think…I don't know!

Anyways, hope you enjoyed! As it's my first, first person, I'd be very grateful if you could let me know what you guy's thought!

(This is unrelated to any other of my NCIS fics!)

-Inks.


	2. Well, Crap

The silence in the bull pen is currently unnatural, making my already foul humour even worse. The raw anger is still bubbling in my gut, and the coffee I'm throwing down on top of it probably isn't helping matters. But, apparently… matters just _can't_ be helped. Because I have _tried,_ and I have _tried_ to help matters. Those efforts? Well, let's just say I've been putting in those damned efforts from day one, and today, was a stark reminder that I'm apparently, still losing the battle.

The computer in front of me flickers annoyingly, attracting my ire but for a split second. I have more important things to be annoyed about, to be _enraged_ about. Not for the first time, my gaze flickers around the room. First stop, Tim. Staring at the top of his bent over head, it's all I can do to remain in my seat, and _not_ stomp over there and shake the life out of him. He was the sensible one, the analytical one. He was the one I could always rely on to stop the other's hair brained, half assed schemes before they got to me.

But not today.

Today, there'd been a glitch in the calming influence that was Tim McGee, and he'd been swept up in their collective madness. I feel my eyes narrow. Tim…was one hell of a good kid, usually. An over achiever, placid, but no pushover. Smart, very smart, but not superior. I'd taken to the boy in a way I never thought I would an MIT grad. I've taken to him, and I know him. I know him inside and out, which I guess, is why today's behaviour all the more jarring.

I know that Tim can say no, if he _really_ wants to. I know that he can stand up to Tony, Ziva and Abby when they're dragging him into their crazy ideas. But today, he didn't. And today, was when he really should have. Because, today, was when it really mattered. As I stare at him, I know I'm still furious. I know I'm in no condition to open my mouth to him again, hell, to any of them. So I keep it shut, I stare, and I chew. Suddenly he senses my scorching gaze upon him, and looks up nervously, hell _fearfully_ from the pile of reports I'd slammed them all with.

My eyes, which I know are on fire, locks with his saddened green counterparts, and he winces. He looks at me like a damned wounded puppy, before throwing his head back into his paperwork. My gut now twinges a tad, just enough to break through my ire, just for a little bit. I find myself sighing heavily, and…well, sadly, I guess. I never want any of them to look at me in fear. I mean _sure,_ I know they jump when I walk into a room, and quail under my gaze when I'm pissed…but, that's not the fear that I've just seen from my youngest boy.

It wasn't just the usual, run of the mill, _don't piss off the boss_ anticipation. I know that anticipation, because to cause that anticipation, I had to _learn_ that anticipation. And, did I ever learn that gut churning feeling from Mike. As I continued to lay my gaze on the kid, I wonder briefly, could it have been _this_ hard for Franks? Did _I_ cause him to suffer through these….these _blasted_ emotions? Did I cause him to think long and hard before he opened his mouth to me?

I don't know the answers to those questions, and I realise, that I don't really need to know.

It wouldn't help me now. Wouldn't help one bit with the anger that's still flooding through my gut. And the fear. I don't scare easy, I really don't. The Marines will do that to you. It'll knock every ounce of normal fear out of you. It'll replace it with a cool composure in the face of chaos, and potentially imminent death. So, no, I sure as shit don't scare easily.

Until it comes to them.

My glare shifts now, to my oldest boy, and I know the anger is still burning in my eyes as they take in his slumped stature. He knows…he knows just how angry I am. It's why the bull pen is so quiet, not even _he_ wants to open his mouth. I stare intensely at the top of his head, and once again, am forced to refrain from physically shaking sense into him. He should know better. Hell, he _does_ know better, because I damned straight _taught_ him better.

That kid, he's my protégée you see. Not in the touchy feely cliché sense either, he's literally my damned protégée. I see so much of myself in him it scares me sometimes. Sure, he's got better hair and a toothier smile than me. He's much more personable and likable than me. But at his core, he's an agent. He was always meant to be agent, and no matter where life takes him, he always _will_ be an agent. It's in his blood, just like it's in mine. I ponder, perhaps in an unconscious attempt to remove myself from my own anger, just how uncannily alike that kid is to me.

Every time I've bawled him out for something, I get a flashback of being yelled at by Mike, for the _exact_ same transgression. Every time he goes off the reservation, I know where and I know why. Because it's what I would have done. It's what I would have believed to be the right thing to do. Sometimes, I guess I find it tough being so hard on him. And yes, _contrary_ to what people think, I _know_ I'm as hard as nails with the boy.

Because, as Ducky once told me, I'm a tough love kinda guy.

And this is one of those times. I'm livid as all hell, and I know I've got to punish him. I know I've got to make him think twice in the future about pulling the same stunt. But there's a part of me, and maybe it's the _non_ Special Agent Gibbs part, maybe it's the Probie Gibbs part, but _anyway…_ a part of me just wants to give him that "atta boy," I know he needs. I don't give them often, and I sure as hell don't give them easy, but when I do…the look on the kid's face usually makes up for all the extra grey he puts in my hair.

But, I can't be Probie Gibbs with him. I _have_ to be Special Agent Gibbs, and that's one of the worst parts about this job. Now, I have no delusions. I'm not as oblivious as everyone thinks. I know my team, we're more than a federal grouping. Tim, Tony, Ziva, Abby….I'd die for them. Not, that heroic Tom Cruise kinda die for them either, I mean… I would _literally_ stop my heartbeat for them. Any of them. They've grown on me, over time, kinda like a damned four part weed. They started off as subordinates, _honestly_ they did.

And then, a couple of years later, I turn around, and they're camped out in my living room, watching god knows what, eating god knows what, for god knows what reason. And I find, I don't mind. I don't mind at all. Quite the contrary in fact. Even though I pretend to huff and puff as my spot on the sofa is taken, and my Western turns into a James Bond whatever they call it, I don't mind. I…well, I like them there. I like the house full of laughter, and life.

Squinting in Tony's direction, I sigh. I'm getting old, and I'm getting sentimental. Slap a bowtie on my, give me a British accent, and I'm Ducky. Much and all as I love the man, I shudder. Continuing to stare silently at DiNozzo, I sternly remind myself to stop thinking about all his good points. This is not a good point time, this is a bad point time, and I sure as hell have plenty of food for fodder. This kid, this agent of mine, is _supposed_ to my second. He's supposed to be _me,_ when I'm not there. He's _not_ supposed to agree, orchestrate and execute moronic plans with my other three.

He's just _not._

I know, I _know_ I expect a lot from him. That I demand a lot from him, but….I have to. Ducky-like or not, I _am_ getting old. This… agent business. It's a young man's game, and I can't play it forever. Sure, I still have a few years left in me, but there _is_ going to come a time, when my badge comes off for the last time. There _is_ going to come a time, when Mexico isn't a brief sabbatical. When that time comes, it's my desk Tony is going to be sitting at. And it my calls he's going to calling.

I need to make sure he's ready.

Like Tim, he abruptly feels my gaze on him and looks up slowly. His eyes don't hold that look of sheepish chagrin when he looks at me. He doesn't even bother with the puppy eyes. I can tell he knows just how badly he's screwed up and how furious I am. I refuse to soften my features as he looks at me, clearly guilt ridden. He looks slowly back down at his work, the most boring I could find, and his shoulders sag miserably. My jaw clenches as I _feel_ that misery myself. I might seem like a bastard, and actually, I'm quite proud of that fact. But, with my team…its different. Being the bad guy, is a damned lot harder than I ever thought it would be.

Sighing, I throw down another glug of coffee, and my eyes slide sideways. To my youngest. Her face his hidden from me by her untameable mop of hair, but I know she's chewing her lip. I know her eyes are scrunched up, and I know she has three deep frown lines etched onto her forehead. She…was possibly, the most emotionally developmental leap I'd ever made. If you discount my ex wives that is, and really, I do _tend_ to discount them.

Especially Diane.

I shake my head and shudder.

Damn Diane.

The others, Tony, Tim, Abbs…they'd all grown on me, organically. Over time, and lots of it. Ziva…was slightly different. I took to her, and I took to her fast. Well…sure, when she first came and sat herself down at Kate's desk, I…well, didn't like her that much. I didn't like her at all. I sure as hell didn't trust her. But then…the whole Ari situation, in a weird, very screwed up way, brought her close to me. I don't know how to explain it, and I don't _do_ all this touchy feely therapy crap, but…since that day, she was a much a member of my team as the other three.

She was incredibly able, naturally so. But…she was impulsive, and had a tendency to buck against my authority. Especially in terms of decisions I make that are for her own safety. Which, _really_ pisses me off. Nuclear level, pisses me off. Looking at her now, I know she's not as repentant as the two boys. I know she still thinks they were right in what they did. I know she thinks that I'm being an unreasonable bastard. Shaking my head wearily, I remove my gaze and stare blankly at my monitor.

Sometimes, I wonder…if the way I discipline my team is the right way. It's sure as all hell not the NCIS approved way, I know that. I don't give a crap about that, never have, never will. But…sometimes, I wonder…would a suspension, would a permanent mark on their records, the risk of failed progression work as a more effective punishment. As I think it of it now, the resistance burns inside me. I hate paper punishments. I always have, I always will. They're counter productive, ass-covering, useless pieces of crap.

Looking around the silently writing three, I know, I won't use them. As much as I threaten to, I know I won't. Maybe I'm right, and maybe I'm wrong, all I know is I'm doing what I think is best. Looking down at my own formal reprimand, from an enraged Vance, I roll my eyes and toss it in the trash. As if a letter in my file matters to me at _this_ stage. But…Leon, much as I hate to admit it, had a point. The point he'd roared at me in his office, about half an hour ago.

My team needed to be reined in.

Their behaviour, collectively, was so far out of line it made even my head hurt. The rage is burning in me now, as I think of it. This always happens. I get mad, and then I second guess myself for being mad. Not that _anyone_ would ever guess, that I second guess, because I really don't come across as the second guessing type. But…when it comes to this, when it comes to disciplining my people, I agonise about it.

Every. Single. Time.

Is there a way to get the message across without using my unconventional methods? Am I being too much of a hard ass? Can I write whatever it is off as youthful exuberance?

I swallow as I look around them once more. The main hesitation, the main spanner in the works…was the same every time. The question, was the same, every damned time. It was a pathetic question, one that had no business being in the mind of a damned Marine. But…I can never help it, as weepy, and as spineless as it is. Shaking my head, I curse myself. I need to get a damned grip. They screw up, they _know_ what happens. It's not a surprise to them, so I shouldn't _care_ about the answer to that moronic question.

But I do.

I really do.

I feel myself flush as I think about the inane nature of the question, and stare unseeingly down at my desk. If Mike could hear the question that always caused me so much hesitation, he'd cave the back of my head in with a slap. And I wouldn't blame him. It was ridiculous, that as a team lead and a damned Marine, that I, to this current moment, struggle with that damned query.

Its selfish, is what it is. I shouldn't be thinking about me, I should be thinking about them. That's my damned _job._ But…again, I can't help it. It eats me up the same way caffeine deprivation does. It consumes me when it shouldn't even be a consideration. I know I can be a selfish son of a bitch, but this is a consistent level of selfishness, even for me.

 _What if they hate me?_

It's pathetic. I know. It's snivelling, cowering and useless. But I ask myself the question every time. You see, aside from Abbs, my team…weren't all that blessed in the father department. Tony…I can't even think about going there with DiNozzo SR, it makes me too damned mad. Same with Admiral McGee and its sure as hell is the same with Director David. My personal opinions on these… _men,_ clouds my judgement when it comes to their kids.

I fear bringing up bad memories.

I fear forging an association between me, and them.

I fear causing them pain. Mental pain, that is. I know physical pain…is inevitable. And it kills me, don't get me wrong, it does. But I can live with it. Mental pain however, I just can't.

I fear all these things.

Of course, I'd never _tell_ them that. Hell, I have trouble giving those rare "atta boy's" to Tim and Tony. Granted, I'm slightly better at openness and affection and all that new age hippie crap with the girls. I don't know why, but I am. But…I'm not capable of telling them that. That I sometimes risk not doing what's best for them, albeit it unpleasant, because I'm acting like a piss poor excuse for a leader.

With one last sweeping gaze across the deathly quiet room, and the now empty coffee cup, I shake my head and stand. I need air, and I need more caffeine. They all look up the sounds of my rising, which are freakishly loud in the equally freakish quiet. My thundering glare has them hastily retreating to their stacks of paperwork. I clear my throat.

"If one of you even breathes out of line while I'm gone, I'm not going to wait until I get you back to my house to deal with you. Is that, perfectly clear, to _all_ of you?"

They all look up once more.

Tim and Tony look chagrined as all hell and nod their head instantly, guiltily. Ziva eyes me for a moment, before jerking her head in answer, but there is no similar degree of repentance from her. I stand and appraise her for a moment, and as usual, she stares right back at me, as if daring me to call her on it.

I don't.

I know enough of her to know when she's pent up, riled up and generally too stubborn to listen to reason, I'm better off picking my battles. So I do, but I shoot her a deathly glare as I leave. She is the most like me when it comes to stubbornness. I'm too angry to deal with it now, so I shoot one last look and leave. As soon as the elevator doors ping shut, I know the whispering will start. The strategic planning, the blame game, the whole works.

I find, I don't really care.

I bypass Abby's lab, and head up to exit level. It's rare as all hell that I don't drop by daily with a Caf-Pow for my favourite lab rat, but today, was _definitely_ not a Caf-Pow day. Leaning back against the cool metal, I realise how angry I am with her. She doesn't know jack about the field, she sure as hell doesn't know jack about how to _protect_ herself in the field. Therefore, she had no _business_ being in the field, and the other three had no business letting her.

My groan echoes around the metal box, and I know it won't be the last that bursts out of me today. Before long, the fresh air is ramming itself down my throat and the hustle and bustle of the DC afternoon is like music, after the suffocating silence of the bull pen. Ten minutes later, and I'm throwing myself down in my usual spot, in my usual coffee place, with my usual drink.

I sigh, in brief contentment.

Peace, even for just five minutes, was a damned blessing.

The chair that suddenly creaks out from the table, therefore startles me. And not in a good way. More, a _I'm going to rip your freaking throat out if you sit there,_ kind of way. But the interrupter is not someone who's throat I'm comfortable with ripping out. However, I'm equally not in the mood for a lecture.

Ducky smiles his usual calm smile at me.

I know I'm being rude. And I know I'm being an ass, but I frown in response. "Duck," my voice grunts, startling me some more, "no offence, but I'm not really in the mood for a spiel about how I need to ease up, or calm down, or watch my cholesterol, ok? Not now. Not today."

He just stares, and I just scowl. I know he's not going to give in, or go away. Throwing my hands up in surrender, I kiss goodbye to my fleeting peace. "I take it I have your _permission_ to speak now, Jethro?" he asks politely, but with a certain coolness, reinforcing my summation that I'm being an ass. Breaking from my usual rule, I incline my head, with a _tinge_ of sheepishness.

"Sorry Duck," I mutter, gesturing to the extra, extra large coffee in front of me, "its been…a bit of a day." The smile that looks back at me is knowing, and I suppress a sigh. Clearly, the grapevine is in full swing and my lots sudden lack of brain function is a well known fact back at the yard. I feel my teeth grind together of their own accord. I wasn't in the mood for sanctimonious bastards judging my team. I force myself, with reluctance, to open my mouth once more.

"Clearly, you've heard."

I like Duck. Hell, I really like Duck. Generally, I don't like people. But Duck, is an exception. Has been for years. But right now…I'm just not in the damned mood. I'm in the mood to be told that I need to calm down, or to lighten up. Or that my lots intentions were good, and I needed to be more permissive of their youthful enthusiasm.

I just…don't want to hear it.

To my surprise, and not entirely my pleasant surprise, that's _not_ what I hear.

"Jethro," he murmurs, his eyes boring into my freaking soul, "you need to get your house in order. The whole yard is talking about it, the Director is livid…and you're sitting here, in the middle of the day, indulging in a little me time and a ridiculous amount of caffeine? Forgive me, old friend, but…surely you should be righting the wrongs of your current situation?"

Ok…it _definitely_ wasn't my pleasant surprise. Instantly, my ire increases and my eyes are narrowing across the table. Like I say, I like Duck. He's one of my closest friends. Of which, there sure as hell aren't many. But…whilst I don't want him making excuses for my team, I sure as hell don't want him telling me how to run my house. My thoughts on the matter are obviously splashed across my face, because he hastily holds up what I'm sure he thinks is a soothing hand.

It isn't.

In this moment, I'd quite happily bite it off.

Like my namesake, the K-9 Jethro.

I feel a sudden bout of envy for K-9 Jethro. He has a good life. He doesn't have many needs. Neither do I. Swap the wooden kennel for a wooden boat, and I'm sold. Let someone else clean up the mess that my team make. Why should it always be me anyway? Why should I always be the one with the answers, I'm just a guy.

Just a freaking _guy._

But, it's Duck, and I can't bite or snarl at Duck. He's the one of the _very_ rare few that has this ability to put manners on me. I don't know is it that _he's_ so impeccably mannered, and some strange part of my brain mirrors that, or is it the fact that a disappointed look from the man actually _hurts…_ but I bite my tongue around him.

I do.

Therefore, I manage a simple "excuse me, Duck?"

There, that sounds about right. I sit back, pick up my coffee and nod at myself. Not rude, but not an invitation for my management style to be criticised. I know, I _do_ know that I'm a flawed beast. I know I'm big on the tough love, and I know I should probably pat DiNozzo on the head more than I whack him upside it, but _give me a break._

I have four of the most different, most prevalent personalities under my wing that the Agency has. If I don't maintain some kind of order, some kind of discipline...all hell would break loose. Now, in a twist, far from berating me about how I'm too heavy handed and all that bleeding heart bullshit, it sounds like Duck is pissed because I'm taking a minute to cool my heels.

I drink my coffee slowly. Savouring the taste. Coffee, is good, she never changes her tune. Never makes my head hurt with long spiels, that given twenty fours, will be delivered again but in complete contradiction to the most recently endured lecture.

He's talking now, and I reluctantly place the cup down and focus. I was hoping he'd take the hint, assess that my question could either be rhetorical or warning, and gallantly leave, citing dead folk and the like. But, he doesn't, and I sure as hell should have known that. Seems, there's a lot of that going around. Things happening under my very nose, that I should know about, but don't.

I push away that stabbing, familiar fear.

A coffee shop, under direct scrutiny from Dr Mallard, was no place to re-experience that fear.

That _I'm past it, too old, and need to get out of the game,_ fear.

It's a bastard of fear, it really is.

"Don't you think," he silkily begins, breaking my chain of thought, "that you should be _dealing_ with the situation, Jethro? In a productive manner? By productive, I mean _not_ bawling your four out, killing trees with the paperwork you've foisted on them, and storming out of your bull pen like a truculent teenager?"

I sip, and I pause, and I stare.

I'm not sure what this _truculent_ means, but I don't think it's intended to be complementary. It actually sounds like a tart. Treacle tart? Man, Diane, she was the worse ex wife, but she made one _hell_ of a treacle tart. Apart from that one time she slammed one in my face. Actually…no, that still tasted pretty good, considering my eyebrows were in it.

He's staring.

I blink.

He's _still_ staring, and his complexion is beginning to match his rosiest of rosy bow ties. I feel my brows knit together. Perhaps, I missed the memo where Dr Mallard is now my boss, and I therefore am obligated to run my disciplinary measures past him.

No, really, perhaps I did.

I don't read memos

I don't do that.

Before I can think of a suitably scathing, and witty, and utterly brilliantly dry retort…I'm sort of famous for those, he cuts me off. And whatever thoughts of word domination I had, escape me. His voice loses some of the impatient bite that always seemed to be reserved especially for me, and his eyes are sad now.

Like sad, British bull dog eyes.

Actually, I think Duck is Scottish. I think he made a point about explaining the intricate differences between the British and the Scottish. I also think I threw down enough bourbon during that enforced conversation that I've forgotten the entire point of it. Anyhow, he's talking, and his eyes are sad, and his next words are also sad.

Today, was just a sad day.

"She was crying, Jethro," he mumbles softly, "when I just left, just now, she was literally weeping."

I close my eyes. I don't need to ask which girl he's talking about. I already know. Ziva, would rather die before being caught weeping. Now, she's sobbed into my chest many a time, but like I say…we were oddly fused in that whole Ari moment, and she knows she can sob, scream or sing into my chest, and that's ok.

Suddenly, I feel an annoying pang of guilt.

I hate, and I do mean _hate,_ seeing any of my lot upset. I know I come across as a heartless bastard who couldn't care if their heads were falling off, but that's just a front, really, it is. I don't like people thinking I suffer from such common ailments such as… _emotions._ I really don't. I'm ok, I'm _very_ ok with my reputation as a cold, calculating, ruthless son of a bitch. A terror to work for.

Really, I am.

But…not when it comes to them. Not when it comes to my two boys and my two girls. They somehow manage to melt my icy exterior, and make me go all warm and fuzzy like some kind of mindless moron.

The kind of mindless moron who only drinks organic, vegan freaking water.

 _That_ kind of mindless moron.

The kind of simpering fool, who winces when one of his brood cries, or groans when one of them has their fingers glued someplace they damned shouldn't. So, as I stare into Duck's face, who _knows_ he's won the war, smug son of a bitch that he is, I sigh. Loudly. The passing waitress looks askance at me, as if I am directing that exasperation at her.

I'm not.

Though I _could_ , she makes piss poor coffee.

But, I'm not. That exasperation is for myself. I…sorta lost it today. I screamed and roared, and bawled out my four with an anger that surprised even myself. That was a mistake, and the pang of guilt is slowly brewing into something more. I should have waited until I was calmer, and I didn't. I know better, and I still damned well did it anyway.

Fear, it does that to me. Fear of one of them with a bullet in their skulls, turns me from a grunting mute into a screaming nutcase. I know better, and I still damned well did it anyway. Now, I'm still angry as all hell, with each and every one of them. And they're _all_ going to know about it, but…this separation that I'm doing, this removal of myself from the situation, it isn't helping.

I've spent the last near half hour wallowing in self pity, when I sure as hell should have been getting my ass, and my house, in order. I know that Ducky isn't waiting for a verbal response, he knows, knowing son of a bitch that he is, that mentioning the fact that my Abbs is crying, is nuclear level ammo.

The kind of ammo that will have me rip a guy's head off, _that_ kind of ammo.

Sure, I know she'll cry some more, actually, a lot more, before the day is out. But I know the kind of crying she's doing now, isn't ok. And the looks on my two boy's faces, they weren't ok either. And Ziva…well, she'd take some more getting through to, she always did, but she always came through.

I abruptly stand, bringing my coffee with me, caffeine addicted son of a bitch that I am, and jerk my head at the door.

Ducky, also stands, that omniscient smile on his face that makes my eyes roll in their sockets. Plopping his hat on his head, he shuffles out of the tables confines, and falls into step beside me. We walk in silence for three and a half minutes, and I know that my luck is running out, and soon… _words_ would be a part of the equation.

And I'm right.

They are.

"They'd never hate you, you know. And walking out on them, is never the right thing to do."

His voice is quiet, like it always is. But his words seem oddly thunderous, like a freaking megaphone, blaring my pathetic, whiney insecurities to the whole damned world. And their freaking dogs. I stop in my tracks, and operate quickly. I school my face into one of complete and utter confusion, but the damned look in his damned eyes, let me know it was a losing battle.

He knew, knowing son of a bitch that he was.

I grunt, not really knowing what else to. Sort of like a chimp on display at a new Zoo.

I need to regain my composure, and be treated like the hardcore, no nonsense former gunnery sergeant that I am. Like the man I _was,_ before that operation in Baltimore, before that transfer from Norfolk, before that extension of the forensics programme and before that initial Mossad liaison programme.

I need to sound like _that_ guy.

I take a breath, and prepare to be seen and heard, as _that_ guy.

"You sure, Duck?"

I close my eyes.

….well, crap.

…

TBC

…

A/N: Ok, so still, super nervous. But, writing first person is actually a lot of fun. Leaves a lot more room for more in depth fiddling in character's heads. Ok, so, there's two ways this can go. I can either carry on the resultant…erm, _conversations_ from Gibbs' view point, or I can do it from each of the four's view point.

Doesn't really matter to me, both are enjoyable to write, so lemme know!

(Also, I know the language is coarser than my usual fics, but…well, this is _Gibbs'_ mind, we're talking about!)

Thanks for reading!


	3. Quad of Horror

My ratty ass sofa creaks beneath my equally ratty bones as I throw myself wearily down upon it. My quad of horror stands in front of me, looking desperately and intently, at anything and anyone but me. The shuffling in the line up, in a less serious situation, would make me bite back a smile. Now, I'm just trying to bite back a snarl. I run my eyes over the assembly, and my teeth are off on a grinding spree. I note however, with a faint trace of pride, that Tim is subtly trying to shield Abbs from my gaze, and Tony is equally as subtly, attempting to shield Ziva.

Abbs, is grateful. Ziva, is…not so much.

I'll come back to her.

I carefully press and prod on my own inner anger. It's still there. I snort. Its sure as hell still there, but its manageable now. I can use and control it, rather than be used and controlled by it. Tony, looks the worse for wear and I focus my gaze on him. I feel my brow raise, and the words begin to form in my throat. My hand raises, decides upon and points out my first victim.

"Tony, start talking."

My command is simple, terse as all hell, and to the point. And yet, the kid looks at me as if I've just asked him to go out and cure global warming. The other three shoot him a sympathetic look apiece, before turning their gaze downwards, lest they also be asked to contribute. I bite my lip. Look down all they want, they _will_ be asked to contribute. Well, not ask exactly, more…informed. Tony is struggling, and usually, I'd throw him a bone. I'd ask a more prompting question, but as of right now…he, and the other three, are going to be getting exactly what they deserve.

Even if it kills me.

Because I know, it _will_ kill me.

He looks at me now and I know, that he knows I'm a special kind of pissed. He also knows that stalling, will not end well. So I can see him deciding to bite the bullet. I can literally see the cogs of his mind turning, the agent in him realising that this was a situation with no way out. No escape doors, no bluff, no con. Just the truth. Of course, he knows, that I know the truth. But he also knows that I want to hear it from him, from all of them, because nothing hammers home your own stupidity like hearing it come out of your own mouth.

So I wait for words, and eventually, words come. Stammering, stuttering words, but words nonetheless.

"Well, uhh…I guess, we sort of…broke the rules, a tad…"

I close my eyes wearily, and wonder what I had done in a previous life to deserve this kind of stress. To have my evening of boat building ripped from under me, to be replaced with character building instead. I should be swooning on my sixth bourbon now, in possession of a chisel with a Sinatra track on in the background. Instead, I'm conducting one of many, many de facto courts. That somehow, always seem to take place in my living room.

I should really put in for overtime. This surely, could be considered as overtime.

He sees that my ire is increasing, and gulps noisily. I glance down to make sure those damned puppy eyes don't get to me, because, tough son of a bitch that I am, DiNozzo…he's got those poodle eyes down to a fine art. Trust me. But that's not the only reason they get to me so much. I don't know is it because they got so close, or because they just remind me of the other, but Tony's puppy "please don't be mad with me," eyes, are _very_ similar to Jen's, as a probie, "please don't be mad with me eyes."

So, yeah, they get to me.

"We went behind your back," he eventually tries again, a nervous jump in his usually bouncy tone, "we set up an undercover operation, without your permission, and without authorisation from the Agency. We…planned it for over a week." He pauses, blushing, and shuffling from foot to foot. I watch silently, as he sucks in a lungful of air, and reluctantly continues.

"We uhm…well we did, erm, that…last night, and uhh…I guess things, took a turn for the worse." He stops, blanches, and is then struck, apparently, with inspiration. "Boss, I know we were out of line, and I know we got you in trouble with Vance…but we _really_ thought that that kid needed help. We really did…and well, we just couldn't stand by and let him be jeopardised because of a lack of evidence or whatever. So…so we thought we'd go and uhm… _get_ the evidence…."

My brows are keening in protest as they ascend higher and higher into my hairline.

You see, this is _not_ news to me. They had come to me with this before. And I'd flatly, well _I thought_ I'd flatly disabused them of the notion of NCIS involvement. This was an Army CID matter, and therefore _not_ our jurisdiction. It had nothing to do with us, and as much as I hated to admit it, I was with Vance when he'd _warned_ my lot to keep their noses out. I'm a pushy son of a bitch myself, but jurisdiction is there for a reason. Folks over at CID had a better understanding of the case, and a better wealth of men and strategies to deal with it.

We had cases of our own to deal with.

Buckets of them.

But, apparently, NCIS' rules and _my_ rules, are beneath the notice of the line up in front of me. I take in a deep breath, and glare at my second in command in the unspoken demand to continue. Again, I know where this is going, but I'm hoping when he hears their plan from his own mouth he'll be better placed to commit to memory how _idiotic_ it was. He looks at me in misery that I work hard to play defence from, and continue to stare firmly.

My eyes are beginning to water from the strain, before I glare internally, and they dry right up. He gulps a bit, and my defences are tested. They'd never believe it, but this line up, this current situation takes every bit of effort I have. The fact that the normally _very_ chatty Tony is stuck for words, takes my effort not to cave in. The fact that the normally bouncy Abbs, has tears shining in her eyes, takes my effort not to cave in. The fact that the normally calm Tim looks about fit to pass out, takes my effort not to cave in. The fact that the normally feisty Ziva looks utterly worn out, takes my effort not to cave in.

It takes _effort._

"So…so we decided to stake out the CID stake out…and uhh, that was wrong," the kid was continuing, and I feel my anger boil inside of me as he gets to this part of the tale. "We…well, we _thought_ we were staking out, their uhm, stakeout…but it turns out we weren't actually staking out their erm, well their stakeout…because it wasn't actually a stakeout….that we were staking out…"

I rub my jumping temples.

If ever I was assured of my place waiting in heaven, it was now. I have _earned_ that fluffy god damned cloud and the dancing little woodworking angels. The earthly suffering I'm currently going through is sure as hell sufficient to buy me that VIP spot on its own. I enjoy a sudden brief, somewhat manic image, of a floating boat in the sky, filled to the brim with bourbon and coffee.

"Turns out," Tony slowly continued, with a bizarre nervous laugh, swiping my coffee ship out of my head "that uhh…it was actually a take-down op that was being run by CID, and not a stakeout. We erm…well, like I say we were staking out the non stake out, thinking it _was_ a stake out and-"

"Tony," I hear myself growl lowly, this stammering beginning to grind my already much worn gears, "get to the point within the next two minutes or I'll start thinking you all need some time to _think_ about what it is you've done." Instantly, three _very_ alarmed and encouraging looks are sent down the line to the gulping senior agent, and he nods vigorously. They all know what I mean by "time to think," and they sure as hell don't like it.

"We thought, because we didn't have the information, that the CID were bargaining the kid's life for information from a snitch. That's what it looked like boss, we _swear._ The boy, he came out of the back of their car, and the two perps came out of another one that pulled up. One CID agent held the kid, whilst the other two got out and talked, who were clearly, Hanton's men. So obviously, to us, thinking it was a simple stake out, didn't understand why the kid was there or why they were exposing him like that…so I guess we kinda thought….the agents…were uhm, crooked…"

Tony took a deep breath, as the other's gazes' found the foundation levels of the ground.

"So…I uhh, I got out of our car and drew my firearm. I tried to identify myself as a federal agent, but a heavy duty truck went past at the exact moment, crazy how things happen like that huh?" he sputtered nervously, quailing under my rapidly souring expression. "I went in to intercept the kid, from what I thought was some kind of screwed up tit for tat situation run by dirty agents."

He falters for a second as my eyes positively spit flames, before stammering on.

"Uhh…well, it's my fault boss; really it is…I didn't leave them with much choice. But uhh…McGee, Ziva and Abbs…erm, well they uhh…came after me, also identifying themselves, but this truck boss, I _swear_ it was a beast of a thing, so they…uhh, couldn't be heard." I can almost see his heart hammering now, and a nervous sheen of sweat coat his pale face. The next thing he's about to say is going to be the hardest, and tough as it is, I'm sure as hell not going to make it any easier for the kid. Hell, I'm not going to make it any easier for any of them.

"As it turns out, boss," Tony continues miserably, "who we thought were that human trafficker Hanton's men, were undercover CID agents, who'd infiltrated his inner circle. The inner circle of which were in the car. So…all three men with the kid were agents, and not uhm…dirty, who saw three armed, dressed all in black people running towards them with guns raised." He flounders again, as my heart begins to race in my chest as I visualise the scene for the hundredth time. My hands clench involuntarily from the fear and rage it brings up.

"They fired boss," he whispers, paling further and shuffling where he stands. "It all happened so fast, they shouted something, we didn't hear…the truck you know…, anyway…we didn't hear…so they fired. I pulled Ziva down, and Tim pulled Abbs. Before they could shoot again, the truck had finally past and we identified ourselves…and well," he shrugged miserably, "I guess you know the rest."

Oh, I knew the rest alright.

The rest being the enraged phone call Vance had gotten from the top brass over at CID. The rest being the roaring summons to Leon's office to be informed of my teams collective trip to moron-ville. The rest being my four escorted back to the yard by the CID personnel who _also_ could have been killed because of _their_ idiocy. The rest being the threats of investigations, sanctions and a shit load of other things from the head honcho over at CID. The rest being that they could have gotten that _boy_ killed in the crossfire. The rest being that that kid was never supposed to hear a gunshot in the damned first place.

The rest…as Tony put it, made me want to start screaming again.

A lot.

See, the child, he was the way in to the investigation. His parents were nearby and fully briefed. Their willingness came from both personal tragedy and the personal assurance of the CID that no harm would come to their son. The child was exactly the type those former Marine _scumbags_ went for. Seeing as, they had gone for, and successfully trafficked his kid brother. The family were asylum seekers, and vulnerable. The sounds of ringing gun fire in the immediate proximity of their only surviving child was therefore _not_ something they needed.

My rage increased at the thoughts of it, not helped by the disgrace those pieces of filth brought to the Corps.

They could have gotten themselves killed.

They could have gotten the child killed.

They could have gotten the CID agents killed.

…and as I looked at them all now, shuffling and squirming, I wasn't entirely sure if they _were_ all going to come out of this one alive. I am _murderously_ furious. And I don't get that way lightly, I can count on one hand the amount of times they've made me _this_ angry, and even then, all those other times paled in comparison to this one. This one took the bloody biscuit, even for them, this…was right up there.

They're all staring guiltily at me now, waiting for their sentence to descend. I stare back, and the rage in my eyes is physically painful. They're watering and throbbing in protest as I glower, but I don't give a damn. Leaning back slightly, I chew my lip in aggravation. There are permanent dents and nicks on my bottom lip, and I can pinpoint each and every one as being caused by one of, or all of the four in front of me.

They're literally _scarring_ me.

"I am ashamed of every single one of you," I eventually mutter, and I mean it. I rarely, rarely mean that, but when I say it, I sure as hell mean every syllable. "You could have been killed. You could have gotten that kid, killed. You could have gotten those agents, who _were_ doing _their_ job, killed. You've jeopardised a major undercover operation, ruining months and months of another agencies work. You've dragged NCIS' name through the mud. We, out there, are a joke right now. And you four, are directly responsible."

I pause to suck in a breath, glowering as the colour drains a little further from each face.

Even Ziva now seems to be as repentant as the other three.

My jaw tightens.

Too little, too late.

And that goes for the whole lot of them.

"You lied to me, and went behind my back after I _explicitly_ told you to stay away from that damned case. You disobeyed me, and in the process bought me a one way ticket to an internal review panel. You, if Leon were to have his way, and I don't even know _why_ I _bothered_ defending you, would be suspended, unpaid, for three weeks apiece. To _start_ with."

I pause once more, closing my eyes in weariness.

I'm too old for this crap. This is FLETC training crap. This isn't the crap I should be dealing with from a seasoned MCRT. It just…isn't.

"I have never been so tempted to suspend you myself. Hell, I've never been so tempted to kick each and every one off my team, and let you be someone else's headache. I've fired men for less, much less, than what you've done. Let me tell you, I'm starting to wonder, and I mean _really_ wonder if I should do the same with you. You apparently think that what I say is irrelevant, what the agency is irrelevant…and I'm left wondering, just when in the _hell_ you all got so _arrogant?"_

The collective flinching is to be expected, and I stare impassively in response. They don't need to know that I'd fight tooth and nail with everyone and anyone, including myself, before I'd fire them. In fact, if it stops this kind of caveman behaviour, then let them have at it. There is no answer to my question, and I don't expect one. I feel the bone in my jaw twitch as it's pressed into a contortion of painful muscle movements.

"You let me down, in a way that I can't even explain," I continue quietly, the words burning a hole in my throat. "I am disappointed in you, and ashamed of you. I don't care if your intentions were good, I don't give a damned crap if you thought you were saving the free world. We only found out about that case as a courtesy, and you've singlehandedly managed to put relations between NCIS and CID back a hundred yards." I feel my head shaking in disgust as I heave heavily. "I've done some things in my time, and I'm no angel, but all I can say is…that I hope I _never_ showed _my_ boss the kind of disrespect you four showed me last night."

The tears that were shining in Abby's eyes for the longest time broke through her defences and began streaming down her face. I see Tim instantly put an arm around her to comfort her, and look at me with the slightest hint of defiance in anticipation of being ordered to remove it. Somehow I feel the words I'm speaking are coming from someone else, because, snap and snarl though I may, I _rarely_ speak like this, to them.

I very rarely have cause to do so. I guess that's something, at least.

"I don't even know where to _begin_ with a punishment that would cover everything you've done," I carry on slowly, looking at them all with an inescapable gaze. "I don't even know _how_ to go about beginning to begin, that's how badly you've screwed up here." I scrub a hand through my hair in frustration and let out a loud sigh. "Any suggestions?" I add sarcastically, "Seeing as, you know, you don't take any notice of anything I say anyway."

"Abby?" my voice demands, "Tim? Ziva?"

They look at me in horror, before dropping their heads back down to the floor. My sigh can probably be heard in next doors bathroom. "Thought not," I snap, "what about you Tony? Any ideas floating around in that head of yours?" The expression on his face is equally horrified as he mutters the predictable "no boss," before joining his partners in crime in their thorough investigation of my carpet.

"Well let me ask you this," I growl, "Do any of you want to go down the formal route with this? Because, I assure you, Vance is _more_ than willing to oblige anyone who wishes to do so. I mean that, if any of you want to go on the record with this, that's absolutely fine, and you can leave now. If you stay however, then you accept whatever I think is fair, and count yourself damned lucky."

A deathly silence descends as I shut my mouth and they exchange astonished looking glances.

"Any takers?" I ask quietly, after a moment. As angry as I am, I have zero intention of using an informal punishment option with one of my four who doesn't want it. Well, obviously none of them _want_ it, but…I don't want any of them to accept whatever the hell I'm going to do with them out of fear. Or some bizarre sense of loyalty. However, my gut churns at the thought of one of them, or all of them going down the formal route. Vance…is gunning for them. Their heads will only be in his office for three seconds, before they land on the chopping block.

The silence that answers me is telling, but I need to make sure.

"Last chance," I mutter, "speak now, or forget about sitting for the next month."

The collective gulping answers me, is also telling, and I don't need to make sure.

There are no takers…

Closing my eyes, I know I have to start taking care of this whole mess. Carefully assessing myself, I know I'm in control. My anger is present, but healthy. Useful. I'm going to need it to get through what I'm going to do. Taking in a breath so deep it makes me dizzy for a moment, steadying myself with difficulty, I raise my hand.

Pointing at Ziva, Tim and Tony, I jerk my head upstairs. "Get upstairs, and go to your rooms, I'll call you when it's your turn." There was an instant shifting in the stationary ranks, as each of the three dismissed looked at Abby in consternation, before turning that gaze to me. Abbs, for her part, merely let out a little whimper before seeming to steel herself, and nod slowly.

I feel a small tinge of pride.

"Boss," Tony mutters, "please…no. Take it out on me. This was my fault, they followed me because they didn't have a choice…I'm the senior field agent." He gulps a small bit, but squares his shoulders. "Please don't punish them boss, this is my bad, my doing."

I feel another small tinge of pride.

Pushing those twinges away as best I can, I shake my head as firmly as possible. "It's not a question of 'taking it out' on any of you Tony," I reply quietly, "it's about teaching you a lesson. One, I thought I'd already taught you. All of you. But….apparently you need a refresher course." I jerk my head upwards once more. "Go upstairs, the three of you, _now."_

They stare at me in misery, not moving.

I sigh.

…but feel another small tinge of pride.

Whatever else they were, my lot, they were loyal to each other. I know the thoughts of leaving Abbs with me, in my current capacity, is not something they want to do. Even though she clearly has me wrapped around her little finger, when it comes to things like this….I'm more of a "one size fits all," kinda guy.

And they know it.

Before I can open my mouth to dismiss them _again,_ Abby beat me to it. Looking at her co-conspirators, she does her best to appear calm and collected. "Go on, you guys," she murmurs, "I'll be fine. Go."

They look at her and then at each other, before finally looking over at me. Eventually realising there was nothing they could do, and that they would each be having their….alone time with me, they reluctantly turn towards the stairs. As they reach the bottom step, Tim turns to me, clearly wrestling with himself for a moment.

His quiet, "we're really sorry, boss," seemed to be magnified in the room, especially with the aid of the other threes silent nodding. Staring for a moment, I eventually release a sigh. Tony had puppy eyes that would melt an ice cap, but Tim…he was like a shelter full of puppies when he wanted to be.

My anger dilutes a little as I nod slowly.

"Aw hell kid, I know you're all sorry. Just…go, we'll sort this out. But we need to get a few things…straightened up first. So, just….go. And…close your doors."

This time, there was obedience, even if it was slow. After a few moments, the sounds of two doors snapping shut came down the stairs, and…it was just me and Abbs. Looking at her, my defences are stretched to the max. She's not gabbling, as she usually does when she's in trouble, because this time…I know she knows it's more than that. Its more than goofing off in the office, or adopting twelve turtles in NCIS' name.

It was different, and she knew it.

…the tiny tinge of pride is back, and I brush it away impatiently. Looking at her intently, that twinge is harder to ignore as she raises her tear stained gaze to mine. "I'm sorry Gibbs," she croaks miserably, "I'm so sorry…." Biting my lip, and putting everything I possess into my now shaky defences, I cast an instructive eye into the kitchen.

"You and I young lady….are going to be having a very long _chat_ , do you understand me?"

She nods instantly, pigtails jumping anxiously.

Pointing in the kitchens direction, I steel myself. "Good. Now, go and get the clothes brush, and get yourself right back here. Double march. Now." The look of horror is anticipated, and my feeble defences waver, but I manage to hold firm. I've decided, that they're all getting the same. Perhaps if the boys had done this latest reservation hop on their own, they'd be looking at a strapping. But…old fashioned, chauvinistic, sexist…or whatever the hell else they call it, I'm not strapping the girls. I'm just…not.

So, it's definitely a "one size fits all," kinda moment.

Plus, I know from experience that the boys positively loathe the clothes brush. Ziva, too. Watching her retreating back, I feel about for the holes in my defences, and sigh. They've sustained heavy damage. Between Tony's willingness to throw himself under the bus, Abbs' tears and Tim's puppy eyes, with a dash of a freakishly silent Ziva, I'm just about empty. Leaning back and savouring my last moment of _not_ feeling like a monster, I scrub a hand over my stinging eyes.

This….was going to be one _hell_ of a long evening.

 **In the kitchen, long evenings were being lamented with an equal sense of misery…..**

Looking down at the open drawer in front of me, I have to hold my breath to keep from passing out. Ok, I know that _seems_ counter intuitive to _not_ passing out, but I'm a scientist, and we have our own away of doing things. The dreaded, dratted and horrifically horrific clothes brush is looking up at me, as if taunting me. I try and reach out a hand to pick up the wood of doom, but it won't _move._

just stand there, like some kind of moronic statue.

I know I deserve this, but…that _brush,_ it's something else. It really is, something else. Well, ok, no its what it is, but to me it's something else. I don't think that makes sense….screwing my eyes up, I whimper slightly. Nothing makes sense right now. Two days ago everything was good. I got my Caf-Pow like I always do, and everything was just rosy.

…now, the only thing that was going to be rosy was….

No _stop_ Abigail….stop being a baby. You know how stupid you've been…right? Oh god please don't let me forgot how stupid I've been, it's the only way I can go back in there. Wait…I wonder does Gibbs have cleaning supplies? I could make chloroform… I could drug him, grab the others and start a new life as Annabel in Toronto.

It's supposed to be nice at this time of year.

"Abigail Sciuto!"

Yes, yes I know I can't _drug_ him…it wouldn't be- oh wait _crap,_ that's not my voice. That's _Gibbs'_ voice. How long have I been in here? Groaning, I look down at the brush that was going to remove my seating pleasure for the rest of my life, and reach out once more. Curling my hand around the dreadful instrument, I recoil at the coldness of its smooth handle. Closing the drawer quietly, I curse myself for not carrying a burn remedy in my purse.

Edging into the living room, with the brush pinned between two fingers like the poisonous rattle snake it _was,_ I slink into view. Usually, the sight of Gibbs makes me beam. Or bounce right into his arms. He's my favourite man over fifty in the entire world. I love him, I really, really do. And disappointing him makes me feel ill. _Really_ ill. Like a celiac eating their way through a bakery kind of _ill._ Oooh…the nuns wanted to go to that new little bakery joint next to the bowling alley next Thursday…that oughta be good…but wait, I'll…probably be gro…uhh, otherwise engaged.

Stopping within two meters of the man who's done so much for me, I gulp and shuffle slightly. He looks at me with that horrible look. There's no twinkle in his eye, the corners of his mouth aren't turned up in the usual little smile he smiles when he sees me. He just looks…. _sad._ The fact that we've caused that sadness, makes me want to barf. Before I can even ask for a bathroom break to upchuck, he's crooking a finger in my direction and my heart stills.

"Come here, Abby…."

…

TBC

…

A/N: Decided to go with the interchanging viewpoints. I know it was heavy on Gibbs' POV at the start, but it just made for clearer writing when there was five characters on the go. Next chapter will be a balanced mix between Gibbs' and brood.

Thanks for reading!


	4. Platonic G-Abby

He's staring, and I'm stalling.

I know I shouldn't. Like, I know I _really_ shouldn't. And not in a whole brave new world way. In a, the longer I keep him waiting the more pissed he's going to _be_ kind of way. And yet, my legs are like useless pins as I stand rooted to the spot like some kind of stupid, deflated soufflé. God… I love soufflé. Especially that one they have at Franco's…he makes the sponge so light and- oh, ok there's steam coming out of his nostrils now. Which usually means I have about a millisecond before laser beams start shooting out of his eyes. This, ironically, is one of the few positions where being Gibbs' favourite does me absolutely _no_ good.

Zilch, nada, nope.

The brush in my hands seemed to get heavier by the second as I stand there, and I know that my stand off needs to end. For my own good. Well…not really for my own good, because when I go over there…it really won't be for my own god. Well, ok, no… _he_ definitely thinks it's for my own good. Buy me and my butt…we have different ideas of what's good for us. And they definitely don't dance with Gibbs' ideas of what's good for us. They don't even dance in the same dance hall. One dances in pre-Vietnamese war fox-trot land, and another raves in downtown DC land. Wait…I don't think Gibbs is old enough to be Vietnam vet. I wonder should I ask him…oh ok, no…focus Abby, focus. He's going a little red and I'm pretty sure that funny noise is his teeth grinding together.

My feet slowly, very slowly move forwards taking me with them. My arms feel heavy and my breathing is becoming a little hinky. I know I'm being stupid, I know it's only a spanking and that's he not going to _kill_ me or anything. But…I don't do pain well. I mean my whole dress _ensemble_ would indicate that I do pain well, but I don't. I really don't. And I _know_ it's not going to be excruciating pain or anything, but it's still going to _hurt._ A lot. I also having a distinct feeling that my ability to sit, and the removal of same, are only the appetisers for this particular escapade.

Also, I think that-

"Abigail Sciuto if I have to come over there and get you, I am straight up telling you that you will not leave this house for a month. Now… _get_ over here."

I blink. He knows I hate being called _Abigail._ I mean, do I _look_ like a freaking _Abigail?_ Well sometimes I do, when I'm being forced to go to court to testify, forcibly being inserted into some heinous _beige_ number. But…crap, I'm rambling inside again. I always do this when I'm nervous, and right now, I'm _nervous._ I'm nervous about the fearsome wooden brush in my hands, I'm nervous about _his_ hands, which are usually super comforting but _can_ be extremely discomforting.

I'm just…nervous.

I'm nervous about the way he looks so tired, and that he won't forgive me. I'm nervous about the way his blue eyes are blazing with fury instead of twinkling when he looks at me. I know it's ridiculous. I know Gibbs never, ever holds a grudge and forgives just as easily as he forgets. Well, when it comes to us anyway. But…being in his bad books, even temporarily, makes me feel all _wrong_ inside. Like the world is _wrong._ My world, is wrong.

I just wish that-

"Abby…"

His voice is gentler now and I blink rather aimlessly in his direction. I can't help but maintain eye contact as he locks me down with his gaze. His anger is still _so_ present, but I can tell he's more resigned than anything else, and I feel another little piece of regret flutter throughout my stomach.

"It's just a spanking Abby," he assures me gently as I try and keep the look of incredulity off my face. It may be _"just a spanking,"_ to _him,_ but his devil hands have never defied the laws of physics against _his_ butt. His voice is filling the room again, and I struggle to compose my breathing. "I'm not going to murder you, now, you have this coming...so get your butt over here." He holds out a hand, and my base instinct is to bite it. But…all in all, that probably wouldn't be wise. Though Ducky _could_ give him a tetanus shot and that would buy me enough time to flee the state.

Before feeling the country.

But suddenly the expression on his face when he'd learned about how close we'd come to being shot in the collective head area imprints itself on my brain and I'm cringing away from it. I'm cringing away from it, by walking to him and placing the weapon of ass destruction in his outstretched hand. His brows are furrowed in sternness as he takes a hold of my wrist, but his murmured "let's get this done Abby," is a truck load more gentle and I find myself relaxing for just a moment.

 _Literally just a moment…_ because…in the blink of an eye, I find myself being gently pulled, and carefully placed in the horribly familiar position. The position of being upended where a forensic scientist should _not_ be upended. Gravity suddenly means little to me as I feel Gibbs' arm snake around my waist, holding me tighter in the unfortunate position of being trapped over his knee. Ok, not _trapped_ per se. I know if I said no, demanded all sorts of Agency approved hearings and sanctions, Gibbs would never in a million years, with fanged horses _dream_ of punishing me like this, The familiar scent of sawdust that always manages to cling to him, and the warmth of his torso are slightly soothing. Grabbing the cushion I always grab in these unfortunate circumstances, I bury my head into it, wrapping my arms around its circumference with a slight squeak.

Holding my breath, as I always do in this situation, to what end I still don't know… I wait in horrified anticipation for the first ridiculously stingy swat to fall. My eyes are bunched up as tight as can be, because things are less painful with your eyes closed. Everyone knows that. Well…no, maybe not everyone. People who are short sighed mightn't know that because when they close their eyes – wait, why hasn't he started yet? I peek open one eye and assess my situation. Yes, not a dream, well a nightmare really. It's real, it's happening, and yet my butt is fabulously pain free.

I don't…get it.

I _equally_ don't get his rather impatient " _Answer_ me Abby."

Oh my sweet suffering lord did he _ask_ me something? I twitch my ears. No, really. I know how to. Well not _know_ how to, some people can and some people can't. It's actually a super interesting scientific anomaly where-

"Abby…are you _trying_ to make me even angrier with you?"

I blink into my cushion. Why would anyone try that? That's literally the dumbest thing – oh ok, oh crap. His arm is tightening around my waist and his sigh is loud. Taking in a cushion-y breath, I clear my throat as best I can. "Umm…what was the question?" The minute the words are out of my mouth, I cringe. I wanted to sound totally in control, like one of those matriarchal lionesses. Instead, my squeaking question makes me sound more like one of those clownfish that although dim, are _super_ cute.

His sigh is to be expected, and I sniffle despite myself.

I _hate_ being the cause of that sigh.

As much as I _love_ my Italian, that sigh…is a _Tony_ sigh. Not an Abby sigh.

"I said," Gibbs repeats with a practiced patience, "care to explain to me why you're you over my knee right now?"

Crap.

That's a _big_ question. No wonder I chose not to hear it as I shoved my face and therefore my ears as deep into cushion-ville as physically possible. I chew my lip, my face heating up in its fluffy resting place. I take in a deep breath and think as fast as possible. Of course I _know_ why I'm…where I am. But…verbalising that knowledge, is a different kettle of fish altogether. Hearing another sigh at my silence, I dispense with thinking and get to talking.

"I disobeyed you," I mutter, knowing that any form of "we," is now out of the question. When one is engaged in one on one time with the boss-man, he wants one on one answers. "I went into the field when I'm not an agent, and when I know I'm not supposed to. And…" my voice wavers a bit, guilt rushing to every fibre of my being. "And…I could have been killed and…." my voice is dangerously close to breaking now, and I try my best not to start crying before he gives me a _reason_ to cry. "And…I could have gotten that little boy, or those agents killed as well."

There.

I said it.

…before I fail. Hot, salty tears well up in my eyes as I truly take a mental step back and assess my actions. I've got a scientific mind, obviously, and sometimes it _sucks._ Because it pays attention to detail, both past and present. And the devil really _is_ in the detail. This is not _exactly_ the first time I've been butt first over Gibbs' knee for uhh….taking creative licence in determining my workspace. We've had this whole _"me agent, you scientist,"_ uhh….conversation, before.

And if there is one thing Gibbs _hates,_ it's repeated conversations.

Well, he doesn't really like conversation at _all._ But those repeated ones….damn, those ones really get his goat. The non-committal but obviously charged "uh huh, and what else?" that rings out over my head kinda reaffirms that point. Seeing nothing but a sea of black as I stare into the cushions soul, I think rapidly again. The answer comes easily enough, but it makes me squirm involuntarily with guilt because it's a breach of a cardinal no-no.

You _never_ lie to Gibbs.

Or try and get him to spice up his tech, dress sense or love life. But…no, lying. Lying is the big cheese of hell to the freaking _no._ But we did, I did…and here we all are. Well, not all of us. Gibbs would never remove sitting privileges from any of us in _front_ of any of us. At least…I sure hope he wouldn't. No…he wouldn't. He wouldn't….right?

"Abby!"

Oh damn. I forgot that I didn't answer. I always do that. I answer in my head, and then get confused when people expect _verbal_ responses. Embracing the ocean of blackness in front of my eyes, I force words to come out of my mouth. "I lied to you," I answer quietly, not even bothering to make my voice sound strong. Because I just can't. "I went behind your back, and did what you told me not to." I can feel my vocal chords quiver and know the next words are going to shake. "I'm sorry Gibbs…and not in a _I don't want to have a hundred degree dragon burn on my butt_ kind of way. I mean… _I'm really sorry_ kind of way."

There's silence at my words, and save for a slight tightening around my waist, that silence reigns for a minute and it is literally the longest minute of my entire existence on planet earth. Well maybe not _quite_ as long as that _awful_ date with that _awful_ prep boy from LA. What was his name again….Steve? Stan? I feel my brows furrow.

It was Clinton.

I shudder.

 _Clinton._

Really?

Ok, back to the present because Gibbs' voice is breaking me from my minds _very_ valiant attempt to block out what's going on around me. It's great at that, except when I miss pertinent info like menu choices and Venuses retrograde cycle. The question that's breaking me from my protective ramblings, can't protect my heart as it pinches in response. I suddenly never, ever want to take my head out of this cushion.

"If you lie to me Abby, if you sneak around behind my back…how can you expect me to trust you?"

He might as well have asked me if dogs go to heaven or…

Wait.

Dogs _do_ go to heaven.

 _Or_ the name of those uhh…football…fellows, that Tony loves. Because I don't know the answer to his question, because I don't think there _is_ an answer to his question that doesn't involve my heart shrieking in my chest. I want, no…I _need_ Gibbs to trust me. He's like my second dad for crying out loud. My much gruffer and greyer dad, but very much my second dad nonetheless. The thought…the idea, of him looking at me and me seeing distrust in his eyes makes my chest contract and suddenly I gag into the cushion.

Expert hands suddenly lift me slightly, so my head is suddenly cushion-less, before one of those hands that was affixed to my waist rubs my lower back.

"Breathe, Abbs," Gibbs instructs quietly, and my respiratory system has the good sense to heed his command. His hand continues to rub the small of my back as a steady supply of oxygen re-enters my body. When he can sense that my torso is reflecting normal breathing patterns, he sighs somewhat and I drop my head back into cushion-town. "You gonna lie to me again, Abby?"

My head shakes frantically of its own accord.

For me, the current subject matter was the worst of this whole mess. I hated lying to people in general, but lying to…Gibbs, it made me ill. It literally made me reject caf-pow's and opt for water. Technically it could kill me. Death by Gibbs induced guilt.

Gibbs Guilt.

If you say it fast, it kinda sounds like a viral disease.

That's how I feel right now.

Diseased, and sorta grimy and dirty.

"No," I eventually manage to choke out, "I promise Gibbs, I won't ever lie to you ever again."

He apparently chews over that for a moment, because his hand stills on my back and no utterances make their way down to my cushion. Usually, I would enjoy this break in transmission but the silence…is creepy. Like ghost-town, ghoul and goblin creepy. Actually I don't think goblins are creepy _per se,_ but ghouls…they're creepy.

"I've heard that before, haven't I?"

There.

Commercial break is over, and the _Abby Sciuto Horror Show_ is right back at a premium slot. Gulping into my cushion, I already miss the ad break. He's right. He has heard that before. And I'm a big believer in promises. Especially pinkie promises, those things are for life. But…the guilt grabs me once again as I realise that I suck. That I have broken my promise. And it's a promise I made to one of the most important people in my entire life.

God I _suck._

"Yes Gibbs," I eventually gather the sensibility to mutter, my eyes filling with fresh tears as I picture the disappointment on his face. "I'm really sorry," I blurt out, breaking his rule again and not giving a damn. I need to tell him. "I'm so sorry that I lied to you, I…"

With that, I just can't say any more words.

And usually, words are my friends.

But not now.

Now the tears escape my eyes, pour down my cheeks and flow directly into an obligingly absorbent cushion drain. My shoulders tremble slightly with the exertion and the general wave of regret kicks up a notch in my stomach. Usually, when a single tear would trail down my face, Gibbs would be the first one to wipe it away. Not now though, and I know I don't deserve it. Now…he just speaks over my tears, and his arm returns to wrap around my waist, securing my impending doom.

His voice, is still his. Still gruff, but gentle. But there's an undercurrent to it.

A warning.

"You don't lie to me Abby," he says quietly, slowly. "You don't tell me half truths, you don't skirt around my damned back. You, as long as you are on _my_ team, play by _my_ rules. If I make a decision, and you or any of the others don't like it, then, as long as it's a mature objection, I'll listen to you. But when I make a decision that impacts both our agency, another agency and the lives of innocent civilians, you do _not_ take things into your hands."

He pauses for breath, and I pause for breath.

"You, as long as you are on my team, trust _me_ when I make judgement calls you four mightn't like. I am not _here_ to make decisions that you _like._ I am here to make decisions that keep as many freaking people as possible, safe. Sometimes those decisions are unpopular…. _deal_ with it. You can complain and moan about me with the others as _much_ as you like, but you _deal_ with it. You do _not,_ until such time as you sit in my chair, call my shots. And you do _not_ betray my trust in you, by lying right to my face for days on end."

He pauses for breath, and I pause for breath.

"Is that _clear?"_

I blink into my cushion, causing yet more tears to escape. It's clear. It's so freaking clear it makes my head hurt. I have no defence for what I did. Sure my intentions were good, but my process was moronic. Staring into the sea of black, and recalling how miserable I felt lying by omission and utterance to Gibbs every day for the last week, I can't believe how much _more_ miserable I feel right now.

It's sure as hell clear.

"Yes Gibbs."

There… mental to verbal carriage completed. Albeit a watery, squeaky, and a lot less than _dignified_ carriage. He doesn't say anything for a moment, and I breathe in his sawdust-y sent in an attempt to calm myself down. I got myself here, and I'll be damned if I'm going to act like a spoiled brat about what's required to get myself _out_ of here.

I need to take it like a woman.

"I get that you're sorry Abby," he suddenly says softly, "and I know you lots' intentions were good. But you understand…I need to send a message here, that this had _better_ not happen again. You get that, right?"

I nod my head, words failing me.

"Good," he mutters quietly, "because…I'm about to give you a spanking that I _promise_ you, you won't forget in a hurry, and then when I'm finished with the others…you four are going to get your butts _back_ down here to discuss the _rest_ of your punishment. Do you understand me?"

….I eventually nod my head, words _still_ failing me. There's a flurry of panic intermingling with the flurry of regret and remorse in my belly. I've been on the receiving end of a less than gentle Gibbs handshake many times before, but this time…I know it's one of those times where he really means business. My butt already seems to me taken on a phantom tinge of pain as I try and keep control of myself.

"Yes Gibbs," I eventually manage to squeak, and to my _intense_ relief…the hand around my waist suddenly resides on the small of my back, applying a gentle and reassuring pressure. "You know that once this is done," my main man mumbles, "it's done. It'll all be forgotten and you'll still my Abbs…ok?"

I grasp at this reassurance like a drowning Chihuahua.

Again words fail me, and I nod mutely, but vigorously.

At this, he squeezes my back one last time, for a while at least, and his arm once again fastens around my waist. I instinctively know the time for talking is over, and this is very much reaffirmed by the suddenly loud crack that fills the room. For the first second or so, all I hear is the crack and I wonder numbly where it came from. But then…the stinging sensation erupts in my rear, from that _one_ well placed swat, and a small gasp escapes me, mercifully muffled by the ever patient cushion.

The next one lands directly after the first, and I suddenly lament my wardrobe choice. My charcoal skirt, though pretty much one of my favourites, isn't exactly heavy duty. It doesn't _really_ provide much protection from Gibbs' heavy hand. A small-gulp-come-gasp escapes me as a particularly hard swat lands and the realisation that my skirt will be flipped up soon hits me like a truck.

One of those big…honky kind of trucks.

Before I can blink, Gibbs' hand cracks down once again, and then…before I know it, the spanking is in full swing. The pace is fast, but thorough, and despite my best intentions…it's quickly getting to me. A dull epicentre of stinging pain is trembling in the centre of my butt, sending out aftershocks with a disturbing speed. Maybe it was a Military thing, but Gibbs was so methodical when it came to tanning a wayward backside that it hurt.

Well, obviously it _hurt_ …but his meticulous rhythm made it hurt like _hell._

Usually, he sort of starts off _kinda_ light and then builds up the hellacious pain over time…but, as I feel more tears spring up in my eyes, I know this isn't one of those times. This is one of those straight to the very sore point kind of times. The more time that passes, and it feels like an _eternity_ is passing, the more I try and stay still. But the urge to squirm away from that ridiculously stingy hand is growing and my ability to willingly remain on the path to hell is waning. As if he _knows_ this, his arm tightens on my waist a little more, and I'm pulled a little further into his torso.

Weirdly it's just as my ability to cry quietly is also fading, and loud crying is hopping on the red line that the dreaded moment where my skirt is flipped up happens. I choke a little on my first loud sob, and I'm _really_ not sure if I can take this or not. Of course, that doesn't really matter…because whether I think I can take it or not, the hand that cracks down on my now much less protected butt is going to keep cracking down regardless.

Ok.

Ow.

My ability to stay still, is gone. It's running out the door like _I_ should have. And it's leaving me here, my womanly stoicism dripping away like a knocked over Caf-Pow. I feel my back rearing against the hold placed on it, and my waist fighting to dislodge the arm snaked around it. I feel it before I know it's _me_ directing them to stage their coup. His tightening of the nearly dislodged arm is predictable, and my tears stream faster in response.

"Stay still Abby," he instructs quietly above my head, "I know it's hard… but try and keep still."

Before I can even _formulate_ a thought as to the redundancy of that statement, he's sighing and suddenly a cool breeze hits my butt as he quickly tugs my panties down just enough to expose my probably dead and bloodied rear. My facial cheeks suddenly feel as red as their nether counterparts and I sob openly into my cushion. He doesn't waste any time, and the cool breeze is instantly taken over by a much hotter climate as the temperature of my ass goes into Martian territory.

For a few minutes the only sounds I can hear are the sharp sounds of his skin meeting my skin, and my own sobs and howls that are so loud they don't even _sound_ like they're coming from me. I'm always the nosiest when getting a tanning. Ziva…now _Ziva…_ she can nearly get through a whole hiding without so much as a hiccough. Well no, she does cry…I've seen her tear stained face before. But she cries _quietly._ I wish I could do that.

Like, right now.

Suddenly, it stops. I can catch my breath. My very heavy, salt infused breath. But…the sad sigh…lets me know why my…correction is being paused, and my heart nearly combusts in my chest. I can't…his hand is bad enough…I'm already pretty damned sure I will _never_ sit again. Like ever, ever again. But…Gibbs apparently doesn't share my opinion, and suddenly there's a cool object resting on my scorched rear and my heart slams even more painfully in my chest.

"Don't you _ever_ make me do this again, for the same reason Abby...please."

…And then the smooth object of horror is removed, just for a split second, before it slams down on my ass with a crescendo force and the barrier I was clinging to, the barrier of my dignity, it disintegrates. So does the barrier between me and my actions that led me to this, the point of no return, and…I'm done. Sobs tear from my throat, and my ability to think, to formulate the simplest of thought bubbles is done. My back suddenly gets a reassuring, if slightly awkward little pat, that my brain barely registers before I can hear the air being sliced with the velocity of the wooden missile in his hand. Being raised in the South, I'm definitely not a stranger to this particular sort of missile, but as the first lick lands, and I hear it before I feel it, I whimper loudly into my faithful cushion.

As the second follows directly after its predecessor, my mind suddenly does me a favour.

It switches off.

Little did I know, that the mind above me would love to switch off too.

But it couldn't.

 _…. Just keep going. She's nearly there._

 _You're nearly there._

 _….Don't be a god damned coward._

I repeat these thoughts over and over to myself as one the most important people in my world sobs her heart out over my lap. I repeat these thoughts over and over to myself as my brain and my arm do battle to deliver every single lick that's falling on her now crimson backside. I repeat these thoughts over and over to myself as my throat constricts in protest and moisture coats my own eyes.

I've punished my lot more times than I care to remember, but this one of the times where it _really_ takes it out of both the offender and me. Abbs was already teary before I even swatted her butt once, I could tell, even with her head buried in that cushion. Now, her crying is at breaking point and its punching its way through the place where my heart should logically be. As I lift my knee, and tip her forwards with about as much enthusiasm as a death row inmate on his way to the last holding cell, I close my eyes for a nanosecond.

Before bringing the brush down hard and fast on my girls' sit spots.

Her rigid shoulders instantly deflate, and I taste blood. Blinking, I realise chewing my lip in reluctance for as long as I have been doing was probably pushing my luck. Her sobbing doesn't get any louder as I systematically redden the spots she'll be sitting on gingerly for the next day or two. In fact, they get quieter. Weird as it sounds, her silent, shaking sobbing is worse than her loud, wailing sobbing. This quiet weeping…it makes her sound broken. Which breaks my god damned heart. Wishing I was anywhere, doing _anything_ else, I swallow hard and raise the brush once more.

I need to make sure, that I never, _ever_ have cause to do this again for the same reason.

Using the idea of identifying my girl in Ducky's suite as sustaining determination, I hold her tighter to me and continue to dish out this, the most warranted of punishments that any of the four have brought on themselves this year. The cracks of the damned brush stay as loud as ever, but Abbs' crying is damned near silent now. As painful as that fact is, it's also a relief. I know my lot. They all react differently. With Abby, the quieter she gets, to the point of complete silence…is an indicator that she _gets it._

That she's learnt her lesson.

…and that I can mercifully, thankfully… _stop._

Tightening my arm around her waist for what I hope is that last time this year, I hold her close to me. My lungs shudder with the amount of air I stuff into them as I force myself to bring Abbs' butt warming to an end. I would pretty much give anything to just bring it to an end, right this damned second. But…we're not quite there yet. The room freaking magnifies the sounds of the brush cracking against her well reddened rear, making me feel more and more like a damned vicious ogre with every swat.

This goes against everything I feel for my girls. My boys too.

When they're upset, I just want to…well, fix it. When Abby cries, I just want to wipe her tears away and hold her close. So…being the one to _cause_ the tears, sets my teeth on edge. It's not freaking natural. Suddenly, the realisation that I still have _three_ more rule breakers to deal with makes my heart sink all the way to the Earth's frigging core. Snapping to, I force the tired muscles in my arm to come to life one last time, to finish up with the rule breaker currently being dealt with.

Ten last swats ring out, sharp, loud, each one making me feel more and more of a monster.

The last one snaps down.

…and we're done.

We're finally freaking done.

Wanting to hurl the brush into the fire, I quietly place it down the arm of the sofa. I need it for the next guilty party, but I don't want Abbs to see it when she sits up. As usual, my hand, of its own accord flies to the small of my girls back. I know she probably hasn't even registered her spanking is over. I know she's probably… _mind numb._ A phrase she coined a while back when she was trying her damndest to get out a tanning by telling me it could cause her literal brain damage.

Taking a pause from rubbing her back for one second, I quickly reach down and pull back up her pants and flip down her skirt. My hand then returns to her back, and I resume my rubbing circles. My sensor suddenly alarms as I rub gently. I know its early days…but, the kid…she's not giving any indication that she realises it's all done. Her shoulders are still shaking silently, and her face is still as buried as could be.

I hesitate.

I sort of have a rule.

I don't move any of my four when they're just after having their butts warmed. I wait, until they're ready to move themselves. But…this time, like a _few_ times before it…is different. Abbs…she's not calming down at all. Not even a little bit. I literally war with myself. My hand is still rubbing her back and I'm muttering quietly to her, reassuring her as best I can seeing as I don't do all that well with words…and nothing. She barely halts her quiet weeping even a jot.

I snap to a decision.

Because I can't freaking bear it any longer.

Reaching down, I carefully pluck her off my knee with ease. Gently manoeuvring her in my arms, I right her, before setting her sitting on my lap, trying to make sure her presumably throbbing backside hangs off my leg some. Before I can properly draw her into my arms, she's throwing herself into my chest, substituting my torso for her cushion, and continuing to sob into my shirt.

I quietly wrap my arms around her and draw her closer to me, tucking her head underneath my chin.

Her slim body is still racking with her quiet misery, and I wonder when I look in the mirror will I actually see a grade A monster staring back at me. Trying to push that thought aside, I rock her slightly, pressing a kiss into her dark hair. I don't say anything, cos' I know she isn't ready to hear anything. So I just do what I can do, and hold her. Tight. Time passes, and slowly, very slowly, but surely…her torso begins to relax in my arms. Her tiny sounds of misery begin to fade out, as my shirt grows steadily damper with now residual tears.

I let a few more minutes trickle by, holding her tight and running a hand through her hair quietly. Her breathing is returning to normal, and I don't feel any more hot tears pushing their way through my cotton shirt. Pressing one last kiss to her head, I lift my own head and give her a gentle squeeze. "You think you can listen to me for a sec, Abbs?"

She doesn't lift her head from my chest, to the contrary she clutches me tighter…but she nods her assent.

Returning my hand to her hair, I chew my already punctured lip for a second.

"I know that was rough," I eventually say, slowly, "I know I was hard on you kid… and I know you're hurting…but do you understand why I had to teach you a lesson?"

She buries her face deeper into my chest, but nods immediately. Before I can say anything else, her water voice is muffling up from my shirt and my ears have to work double time to catch it. The timid little "m'sorry Gibbs, _m'sorry_ …" kicks its way through my already busted up ticker, and I squeeze her gently once more.

"Shh now, shh…I know you are Abbs, I know…"

And I do.

I really do.

She suddenly removes her hold on me, and dislodges her head from my chest to look up at me. Whatever reservations I had about looking in the mirror at a monster are intensified as her red rimmed eyes, mascara streaked face and red stained cheeks stare back at. Reaching out, while feeling like an absolute beast, I wipe away a stray tear or two with my thumb and smile as best I can down at her. Before I can open my mouth, she opens hers.

"Stop it," she mutters, with a sudden sharp tone to her mumbling. I feel my brows raise as I stare down at her.

"Stop…what?"

She tries, and fails to glare, she's too wrung out, the poor kid. I feel another pinch of self loathing. Before I feel a stab of panic. Does she mean…stop holding her? I feel my face whiten as all too familiar worries pierce me left, right and centre. I search her eyes for hatred, beginning to remove my arms from her, before she clutches them and keeps them exactly where they are.

" _That,"_ she says, and her sharpness is nearly normal Abby-esque. "Feeling guilty," she adds, more quietly, in response to my confused expression, nestling herself more firmly in my arms. I exhale slowly, wondering where I left my damned poker face.

"I'm not," I lie weakly.

She doesn't even bother to look up to contradict me.

"You are, and you need to stop," she answers softly, a hint of tears still in her voice, "I…you, well…I deserved that." I don't answer. She knows me too damned well. Instead I just increase my hold on her, resting my chin on her head once more. "How you doing?" I eventually mutter, noting how more relaxed she seems, almost sleepy.

She nods into my shirt.

"M'ok," she mumbles, before smiling half-heartedly "butt has seen better days though."

I chuckle a bit, surprising myself and squeeze her carefully. "I don't want to see you in this position for a long time Abby," I answer eventually, allowing a stern note in my voice, "preferably, I don't want to see you in this position ever again, but well…I'm a realist." She looks up at me, outraged for a moment, before accepting the truth to my argument and grins slightly sheepishly.

I try not to pass out with relief at the sight of her normal mischievous smile.

"Am I forgiven?" she suddenly asks shyly, finishing off what's left of my battered heart. Planting another kiss at the top of her head, I nod down at her. "You know you're forgiven Abbs," I tell her truthfully, "hell, kid, you were forgiven before you even did it." I stare down at her some more, knowing she needs to be totally sure.

"Slate's clean Abbs, it's sparklingly clean."

She relaxes even more in my arms, and I can just see the sleep building in her eyes.

Before all of a sudden stiffening and looking up at me hesitantly.

"What's the rest of my punishment?" she asks suddenly, and I can tell she both wants and doesn't want to know the answer. I look at her for a moment, before shaking my head. "I'm not sure yet Abbs," I tell her honestly, "we'll talk about it, you, me and the others. I need to…talk to each of them on their own, and like I said before, we'll figure out what else you horrors have coming."

She looks at me with such misery I'm struck with the insane idea of buying a Caf-Pow home vend.

"Nothing terrible, Abbs," I assure her, "you'll probably just find yourself looking at the four walls of your lab, and either the four walls here, or the four walls of your apartment for a while." There's silence for a second, and I pray to whatever god or magical elephant that exists that she won't start whining with me. I'm exhausted, and I need a breather before the next rebel leader comes down those stairs. "Ok," she says quietly, and I feel a little pang of guilt for assuming she was going to give me a hard time.

Breathing out slowly, I plant one last kiss on her head and give her one more squeeze in my arms.

"I gotta talk to the others now Abbs," I mumble into her head, "you think you can go upstairs and maybe have a little sleep for me?"

She looks up at me, and sadness crosses her face. "Do you really have to punish them?" she pleads suddenly, and I feel instantly ten years older. Pushing her fringe out of her eyes, I nod sadly. "Yeah, Abbs," I hear myself sigh, "I really have to." And I do, really have to. I'd rather not. I sure as _hell_ would rather not. But I made myself get through Abby's fate, which is always the hardest for me, and I'll make myself get through the rest.

But I'll need one hell of a stiff drink after it.

She pulls herself up off my knee and winces as the pain rears its head, and I grimace sympathetically at her. Rubbing her eyes for the last time, she sighs and looks at me in resignation, knowing there's no point in trying to get me to change my mind. "Who should I send down?" she asks quietly, and I falter. Spanking Abby first…was as strategic as it was necessary. She's my Achilles heel. Now, I love all my four equally. I do. And I don't throw that love word around easily. In fact, I think Abbs and Ziva are the only two of four I've managed to say the word to.

Tim and Tony…well, they get me. We're men. We don't need…all that words and cupcakes stuff.

So, getting Abby's punishment over and done with first made sure that I didn't throw in the towel, and give her an easier time from being worn down, which would be both unfair to the others and her in the long run. But the question of who next is a tough one. The answer I'd most love to give would be "no one, let's order a damned pizza," but I can't give that one.

Casting around my mind, I decide instinctively.

"Tim."

She looks at me with misery splashed across her face.

"But… Gibbs,-"

I shake my head and manage a warning glance, tempered by the fact I know McGee is special to her.

"Tim, Abby. No buts. Send him down please, and then go to yours and Ziva's room and rest."

She stares at me for a moment, before apparently having a resurgence of sting and reaching back to rub her butt vigorously. Looking back up at me she scowls, "it's not _funny_ Gibbs." Biting back my chuckle, I hold my hands up in defence. "Who's laughing?" I ask innocently, to be met with narrowed eyes.

"I could kill you and not leave a trace, you know that right?"

I snort in laugher.

"I'd come back, solve the case and tan your hide, you know that right?"

It's her turn to laugh, and the broken shards of my heart twitch and move slowly together at the sound.

"I do," she concedes, shaking her head, before turning in the direction of the staircase. Throwing myself back in the sofa, I savour the few moments of not being the bad guy, not being the hard ass…and just being me. Weariness sets about me as I catch a glimpse of the semi concealed brush, and the thoughts of what is about to go down with my youngest boy hits me like a wet fish to the face. Scrubbing a hand over my face, my eyes sting in protest and I can't help but sigh.

"Gibbs?"

Opening my eyes immediately, I see Abby has made it half way up the stairs and I raise a brow in her direction. "Yeah kid?" I hear myself ask tiredly, not being able to keep the mounting exhaustion out of my voice. She stares at me for a second, and I straighten myself up a bit, beginning to think something might me wrong with her. Her answer isn't verbal when it comes, but it roars at me as if came through a damned megaphone, and the wide smile can't be kept from my face as I sign back.

"Love you too, Abbs."

….

TBC

…

A/N: Thoughts?


	5. Platonic T-Ibbs

I try not to look at the mixture of sympathy and horror that's hanging off of Tony's jaw as Abby delivers my summons. I don't need him to think that I can't take what's about to happen. The logical part of me knows that no matter how mind bendingly irritating he is at times, he's struggling with the urge to run downstairs and take the blame for me. I take some sort of solace in that. I'd do the same for him, though we both know the boss would never hear tell of it. I jerk my head at him in some bizarre macho attempt to indicate that everything would be fine, nothing to worry about here.

But my stomach is turning.

There's a thin sheen of sweat forming under my hair.

I feel pretty ill.

I know, _I know…_ that Gibbs would never actually hurt me. Well ok, what he's about to do _is_ going to hurt me. But he'd never hurt me, hurt me. But I can't help it. Every single time I get myself into one of these messes I completely lose my sense of reason. That's why each step is so hard now. I know he can hear me on the landing, and I know he knows that I know he can hear me. He's not hurrying me, not calling me…and that's a small mercy, I guess. Gibbs…he's got this thing about letting us come to terms with things in our own ways I guess.

But there's only so many stairs in this house, and I soon find myself hovering on the last one. He looks up and tilts his head at me slightly, but doesn't say anything. Doesn't snap at me to hurry the hell up like he would on a case in the office. Over the years I guess I've learned that the work Gibbs, and the home Gibbs, are two different Gibbs'. And that's a good thing. I don't think I could cope with work Gibbs taking a torch to my ass.

Ok, not a _torch_ but…

I somehow find the strength to move my legs. I don't need to be told where to sit. We've all been in this chair, the one facing his. We've all been lectured to high heaven in this chair, and it's one we avoid at all costs. There was no avoiding it now, and I know it. I don't say anything as I sit, feeling the bile rise in my throat. It isn't the whooping I'm about to get. It isn't the tongue lashing I'm about to get. It's the…disappointment, in his eyes, that's making me feel sick to my stomach. If there's one thing I hate doing, can't _stand_ doing is being the cause of disappointment to this man. I can't even meet his eye as he appraises me, my gaze burning a hole in my knees.

But not for long.

"Look at me, Tim."

 _I'd rather not, no thank you. Appreciate the offer all the same._

He clears his throat at my unresponsiveness.

"Now, please."

The please was superfluous, and we both knew it.

Slowly, I manage to peel my eyes from my knees and pull them upwards. His gaze was even, controlled, but the anger that burned in his eyes was apparent if you knew him well. And I did. And I knew his anger just as well. I feel myself swallow heavily, and feel my eyes water in protest at keeping the most unwelcome eye contact I've ever faced. He says nothing for a moment, leaving me to stew in my own misery as he raises a brow in my direction.

"I'm disappointed in you, Tim."

My heart sinks. I can feel it in my socks somewhere. It falls straight through my chest. I would rather him roar at me. I would rather he shrieked, cussed and hollered. Anything would else would be preferable to this quiet, to the point, disappointment. I don't know what to say, so I say nothing. What can you say really, when you're faced with your let down of an existence? Apparently my feelings on the matter are clear in my face, because he sighs and shakes his head.

"No, Tim," he says quietly, "I'm disappointed _in_ you, but _you're_ not a disappointment."

It is with difficulty that I force my jaw not to fall open.

Contrary to popular belief, Leroy Jethro Gibbs wasn't as emotionally clueless as he let on.

I feel myself blush, and break eye contact.

"Eyes up," he immediately corrects, with a trace of his usual bite, "and look at me when I'm speaking to you."

I immediately obey, that tone brooking no argument. I can see he's getting ready to launch into a lecture that I know I fully deserve, yet…I'd do anything not to hear. It's not often the boss is driven to the point of loquaciousness with us, but when he is, you can be sure you're damned well going to hear about it. The air he sucks in seems oddly loud in the unusually quiet room and I barely conceal a borderline involuntary flinch.

"You are supposed to be the voice of damned reason. I depend on you, rightly or wrongly, to stop these kinds of stupid trips off the reservation. If you didn't think you could do that, you should have come to me. But you didn't even _try_ to stop it, did you? You went right along with it. You deliberately aided Abby, a _scientist_ without a bull's notion of fieldwork in your little escapade. I know you care about her Tim, so can you _explain_ to me why you thought this little plan, her included, was a good idea?"

I couldn't control the flinch this time.

"I…didn't…I just didn't…

…."think?" he finishes for my grimly. "Yeah, I kind of guessed that Tim. But you're _supposed_ to think. I have _trained_ you to _think_ at _all_ times. Do you know the kind of havoc you four could have caused out there? To yourselves, and to others? The body count? The inter-agency setbacks? I have rules for a reason, and to be quite honest with you, I don't give a rat's ass if you lot don't like my decisions sometimes. It's not my job to get your blessing, it's my job to get you through each day without a bullet in your god damned heads!"

I couldn't control the flinch this time either.

"When you have your own team son, then you can make all the decisions in the world. But when your ass is under _my_ command, you will damned well do as you're told or you'll face the consequences each and every single time. I cannot and will not have agents who disobey a direct order. I gave you _all_ direct orders, and you all disobeyed me, lying to my face in the process. Where do you think that leaves us, Tim? Do you think that you pulling these kinds of childish, headstrong and downright insubordinate stunts are going to help us, or _kill_ us in the field?"

The shame and regret that's bubbling in my gut is painful, it's molten to my core.

"No answer? Because it's obvious, isn't it? And you would have known that, had you bothered to use that brain of yours for five minutes. When I make a call, I sometimes don't have either the ability or the inclination to walk you all through every step of it. I shouldn't have to hold a damned convention on a command decision. I should be able, in full confidence, to give an order to my team and expect them to trust me and my reasoning's enough to follow it, even if that don't agree with it. Isn't that _right?"_

If there were a crater in the ground this very minute I would dive headlong into it.

But there isn't.

And I'm stuck facing the ramifications of my own and our collective, stupidity.

"Yes boss."

He pauses for a minute, running a hand through his hair agitatedly. I feel another sinking blow of regret for the stress we've put him under, and resolve never to wind up this position again. But, I've made similar resolutions before, and I've always wound up back here, having my ass chewed out before having it set alight. I focus on my breathing, determined not to whimp or wuss out of what I had coming. I'd made a brazen, childish and downright idiotic decision and I know I have to pay the price.

Without a fuss and without excuses.

I owe the boss that much.

"I am asking you," he mutters, his voice softer now, devoid of the earlier bite, "not to do this to me again Tim. I am asking you, to think next time. Because you may not understand now, but when you have your own team…or when you have your own kids…the…idea, of something happening to them that could have been avoided is…unbearable. And I'm asking you, _not_ to do this to me ever again. You're not perfect, I'm not perfect, those three upstairs aren't perfect, but…we're all we damned well have. I'd frigging appreciate it if you could remember that, the next time you're tempted to go against my orders, which are always for your safety first."

He sucks in a deep breath, a slight blush colouring his cheeks, as I lose the ability to digest my own.

"You think you could do that?"

My head bobs up and down of its own accord, and my voice, when it sounds out is raspy. Even to me.

"Yes…yes boss."

He eyes me for a minute, and I pray he can see the sincerity that I don't have the words to say. I hope he can see the regret and the shame I feel. I will him to know how sorry I am. I know he doesn't like to hear us say it, but sometimes he doesn't need to hear it, he can see it. Before I can open my mouth to say it anyway, to blurt it out, his eyes suddenly lessen from his anger and I know he's seen what I needed him to see.

"I believe you."

I know he's referring to more than my croaked assurances. I know he's letting me know that he knows how badly I feel, how much I know I've screwed up. He scrubs a hand across his face, and in that minute, he looks older than I've ever seen him. The remorse kicks up another violent ash cloud in my stomach, obscuring my lungs, making it hard to breathe.

"You understand I gotta punish you for this, right? You understand I need to teach you a lesson?"

My heart stills, but I force myself not to look away.

"I know, boss. I know I have it coming."

He looks at me silently for a minute, and maybe it's desperate thinking. Maybe its delusional hope, but I could _swear_ I saw I tiny flicker of pride cross his face as he stared. But then his hand is moving, and his face goes back to his impassive mode. I feel a burning in my throat as he reaches down the side of the sofa and produces that horrific, wooden instrument of doom. I've had that brush against my ass more times than I'd care to admit, and it never gets any easier.

But that's not the worst part, and that's not why I feel even sicker still.

The brush…it means he's not going to use his belt. Which sounds great and all, but with the brush…the boss always pulls you across his knee like a damned kid. It made the punishment ten times harder to take, and both Tony and I positively despised it. It seemed the girls were more familiar with the position, but we're more familiar with the back of the couch. The…intimacy, I guess of being put over his knee like a moron teenager makes whatever it is we've done hit home all the more harder.

It was Gibbs at his most "home boss," mode.

I gulp.

He eyes me closely.

"I know," he admits slowly, "I know how much you hate it this way. But you deserve it, and damn it to hell if you didn't bring this entirely on yourself Tim." He scoots further back on the sofa, and crooks a finger at me and just like that I know my time is done.

"Come here."

Maybe in the wake of a less egregious offence than lying and putting ourselves and others in danger, I would have protested. Pleaded and whined. Offered various other forms of torture. But there's something about this moment, about the heart of what we've done that steals that resistance from me. I don't know how I'm doing it, but suddenly I'm up. I'm walking the three feet to his side and I'm sucking in a shaking breath.

He looks up at me as I land beside him and I squirm despite myself.

"I won't do it again boss."

He nods slowly, arching a brow.

"I know kid," he murmurs, grabbing my wrist carefully and pulling me into the dreaded position, "because I intend to make damned sure of it." I feel my face heat up as I easily fit into the horrific stance. I instinctively bury my heads in my arms as his arm wraps around my waist, holding me in place. "You're in for a tanning here Tim," he's saying quietly, "and then when I'm done with the other two, the four of you will come back down here to discuss the…non corporal part of your punishment."

He takes a deep breath.

"But then, it'll all be done and we'll never speak of it again. OK?"

I feel a small flare of relief as he accepts my silent, jerking nod for an answer, not trusting myself to speak. The arm tightens around my waist a little and I could swear I hear a reluctant sigh. His left knee rises slightly, lifting my butt further into the line of fire. I feel myself clench in anticipation of the first swat. The first stroke of that damned brush is always, _always_ the worst.

But when the sharp, ringing swat sounded out, the pain I expected to feel doesn't register. Sure, there's a sting there, but it's a dull, fleeting sting. Not a sharp, searing one. I instantly recognise the cause of the disparity and my blush deepens to blood red levels.

He's spanking me with his hand.

Lord, take me now.

I bury my face so far into my arms my eyes water as he continues to wail away on my butt. Embarrassment, of which is epidemic levels aside, I feel a horror as the sting mounts. It may just be his hand, but his hand _hurts._ I grit my teeth and resolve to get through this as quietly as humanly possible. If Tony _ever_ finds out that I blubbered from a _hand_ spanking I'd never, ever hear the end of it. But it's _hard._ The whole stupid mess that we created is swimming in front of me as the never ending hand keeps falling and I'm hard pressed to keep it together. The guilt and the regret are still strong, but I know by the time the boss is finished the guilt would be gone.

But there's a painful price to pay.

"Up."

The order takes me by surprise and the removal of the arm around my waist leaves me feeling _cold_ somehow. I blink, falter for a moment before my brain can really catch up. I feel my eyes close in misery. I know where this order leads, and it's nowhere pretty. Slowly I pull myself back to my feet, and stand at his side with my eyes rooted firmly on the floor. To my relief, but not to my surprise, he doesn't insist on eye contact right now. Gruff as he can be, he never tries to embarrass any of us.

"Pants down, Tim."

Even though I knew this was coming, I still die inside. My ass is already on fire, and that's just from his hand and the protection of my slacks. I fumble with my belt for a second, but he doesn't say anything, just waits patiently. Knowing there was no way out, I bite the damn bullet. In two seconds my slacks are pooling around my knees and I find myself being pulled carefully back into position. The next swat that falls immediately after the arm snakes back around my waist takes me by surprise.

It hurt.

A lot.

I reaffirm my resolve to at _least_ get through the hand portion of my current horror. But, it's not easy. The pace is fast and furious, and the silence that always hovers around a spanking at Gibbs' place gives you no choice but to hear in HD sound the smack of his hand against your butt. He never lectures, for which I'm usually grateful, but right now I wouldn't mind a little background music. Something to make my ears off the sound of my own chastisement. It makes the whole thing a million times worse.

A hiss escapes me.

I can't help it.

He's caught me on the freakishly soft skin that joins my ass and my thighs.

He has a highly unfortunate habit of doing that.

The next swat falls in the same place and I squirm away from it, I literally cannot help it.

Tony must never know of this.

Before I could truly promise myself never, ever to wind up in this position again, my position gets worse. My already red face deepens as the cool air meets my scorched rear. My boxers meet my slacks, and before I can even groan inwardly the next swat lands. And it's a hell of a lot worse. It obviously is a psychological thing, because thin cotton shorts aren't really going to do squat in protecting my ass against a determined Gibbs, but the minute they're gone, I mourn them.

I _grieve_ for them.

I try stay in position as the next flurry of intense swats.

But I fail, and that's when the dam breaks.

Tears spring up in my eyes and a gasp escapes me as he concentrates on those damned sit spots. His hand isn't a human hand, and I intend to scientifically prove it if I survive this. The burning that rages on my ass is intolerable and I can't stop the tears punching their way out of my eyes and streaming down my face. I don't know if he senses that or not, because he suddenly holds me tighter but continues his onslaught.

I'm crying quietly right now, I am.

But he's stopped for a moment, and damn it to all hell if I don't know why.

My breath catches in my throat, and my heart races with the knowledge that I can't take this. The smooth feeling of the wood resting against my butt, cold for a moment, soon to be well heated makes me issue a pitiful whimper.

"Nearly there, son. Just try and hold on for me."

And that was that.

The pain I can hear in his voice, makes my own rise like a sea tide. The guilt and regret that I'd been trying to keep a hold of burst through, and racking sobs make themselves known. I don't even care about not looking like a man anymore. I don't even care if Tony can hear me. The pain, both physical and psychological is too great. My arms keen under the weight of my head as I push my tear stained face firmer and firmer into them, trying to escape the situation I've made for myself.

I close my eyes tight, but tears still find their way out, hot and fast.

But I make a different resolve as the welcoming blackness engulfs me, and my last thought is simple.

 _I can take this….._

This damned brush seems to weight a metric tonne in my hand. My youngest lad is hurting, and it kills me. I hardly _ever_ spank the boys with just my hand, and I know it's thrown him for a loop. But I wanted him to know that this wasn't just because he disobeyed me as his boss, it's because he terrified me as much more than that. He might not see that now, but he's got a sharp mind. When he calms down and reflects, which I know he will, I know he'll know why I've done what I've done.

And I hope he understands.

Glancing down I don't bother to hide the wince. It's not like he can see me anyway. His butt is a crimson red and all I'm about to do is make it even redder. I tell myself to man up, that they've all brought this on themselves but it doesn't do much good. My heart is as heavy as this damned brush.

The first crack is distastefully loud, and I flinch in synchronisation with my boy.

I need to just get this done. I want to just pull him off my lap right now, ruffle his hair and tell him not to do it again. But I know I can't. He's let go of some of his guilt, I can tell by the crying. But he's not there yet, and he's not getting up until I know that _he_ knows he's been well punished and he doesn't need to beat himself up anymore. I grit my teeth, pull him close and continue tanning his rear end. The belt is a much more painful punishment, but I know the two boys prefer it to being ass up over my knee.

Another major reason they're not getting it.

I somehow find the will to keep going, hating myself as his cries grow louder and his ass glows redder .

Before long, the kid is howling. Pulling him closer to me to stem his squirming, I resolve to bring the punishment to an end. Feeling an absolute son of a bitch, I tip my knee upwards and land the last swats on his well presented, already well reddened, sit spots. I don't even need to look down to know that he's had enough. He's gone limp over my knee, his sobbing is coming in racking, yet quietened peals. Again, as after Abbs, I'd practically sell the house to be able to throw the damned brush into the fire.

But I still have two more offenders to go.

So down the arm of the sofa it retreats.

As usual my hand rests on the small of his back as I rub it quietly, waiting for him to regain control of his breathing. I know it's going to be a longer wait than usual and I settle in for the long haul. His back shudders underneath my hand, the effort of his misery. The next time Abby forces me to watch that infernal _Shrek_ thing she loves, I know I'm going to see myself in that green, long eared son of a bitch.

I take a breath as he continues to cry, but I can hear that it's not as heartrending. My hand doesn't leave his back, but I know it's time to inject some vocals. "You did great kid, proud of you…" I can instantly feel the slight melting under my hand as these words hit home. I don't often say things like that, so when I do, they never have to doubt if I mean it. And I do mean it. My youngest lad had taken his punishment like an absolute man and I'm proud as hell of him for it.

He lays there for a while longer, and I make no effort to dislodge him.

My rules are there for a reason, and even though I broke it with Abbs, I know Tim needs his space.

They're different like that.

So I wait.

And I'm eventually rewarded.

After one last sniffle that could have melted ice caps, he heaves himself up. I immediately turn away, under the pretence of righting an already militarily right coffee table. The usual hiss that lets me know that cotton has connected with skin lets me know his clothing is righted, and I take a deep breath before turning around. This bit is one of the hardest for me. I always feel my gut squeeze when I see the reddened eyes, the sad expression and the mussed up hair. Knowing that I caused it makes it ten times worse, but I know I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't.

I'd be letting them down for my own ease of mind, and that's never going to happen.

I stand and place a hand on his shoulder, and as usual the relief that hits me when he doesn't throw it off is staggering. I use it as a gauge, to see where he's at. I know now it's safe to pull him into a hug, and the relief grows. He melts into my chest and I know he's completely free of any lingering guilt. I don't say anything for a second as I squeeze him. Letting him go, I step back and ruffle his hair drawing a rueful grin.

He hates when people mess with his hair, but it's become a kind of tradition after I've had cause to tear up his butt. It, in a weird way…sort of re-establishes our roles, I guess. Letting him know, that I'm not mad with him anymore and he's forgiven.

"How're you doing, Tim?"

Maybe it sounds like a stupid question, but I genuinely want an answer.

I need an answer.

He ponders for a bit, looking thoughtful.

"Sore," he admits, "but better."

I can't help the grin that crosses my face.

"Just what I was going for."

His answering pout is hilarious. "Sorry boss," he mumbles quietly, but with a complete absence of cloying guilt, "I got the message. No more trips of the reservation, I promise." I feel my head shaking before I register it fully. The snort is not unexpected.

"Don't go making promises you can't keep," I laugh, and the wry expression on the lad's face is my answer. "Good point," he sighs, before shuffling slightly. "Uhh…boss, you know the way you said that there was a uhm…non corporal uhh…"

I hold up a hand.

I know what he's going to say.

"I know I usually let a sore ass be the end of it Tim, but this time I think you all need a little extra reinforcement. But," I add hurriedly, seeing the miserable expression cross his still red face, "it's nothing to worry about really. We'll talk about it, ok?"

He brightens, knowing he's not going to be swimming in paperwork for the rest of his life.

"Ok boss."

His gaze suddenly shifts and the expression that usually is worn when he's trying to figure out how some techno whatsit crosses his face. I follow his eyes and feel confusion. He's staring at my hands as if he's never seen hands a day in his life. I feel my brows raise ad my head tilt. "You ok, Tim?"

He looks up sheepishly and nods, before darting his gaze back down to my limbs once more.

"Have you ever had skin grafts on your hands boss? Do you take any sort of food supplement?"

This time, I feel my jaw drop slightly.

"Uhh…no," I answer slowly, " _why?"_

He moves closer, focussing on my right hand in particular, his interest obviously peaked. "How often would you say you work on your boat? How many hours a day? Do you use your right hand more than your left hand? Do you wear protective gloves when you're working on it? Do you use any moisturising cream?"

Before I can even _think_ of an answer, he literally grabs my hand in his, and examines it with a doctor's gaze as I stare at him stupidly, my limb hanging in his. "Do you mind if Abby and I were to run some tests on this hand, boss?"

Ok, that's it.

I pull it from his grasp and eye him firmly.

"What on _earth_ are you talking about?"

He both grins devishly and shuffles sheepishly and I feel the firmness wipe right off my face.

The kid's freaking adorable when he wants to be.

"Boss," he begins seriously, "I don't mean to alarm you. But your hand, is not human."

There's silence, as I stare.

…and stare.

Before bursting into laughter.

"I think you'll find my hand _is_ human Tim," I contradict with a grin "it's just worn out from you four. Now, unless you want to _test_ it right now, get your butt up those stairs and send Ziva down to me."

He stares.

He knows I'm joking.

He tries again and I know this is going to be one of those things he and Abbs team up on, and that when I'm asleep some night and they're here, my hand is going to be carefully swabbed. I throw my eyes up to heaven and barely stifle a snort.

They're… _unusual,_ my lot.

"But boss, just for curiosity….if we could just take a _sample…_ it wouldn't-

I send him upstairs with a soft tap to his butt, a surprised squeal and an exasperatedly fond grin.

….

TBC

….

A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed?

Thoughts?

-Inks.


	6. Platonic Z-Ibbs

He was trying to hide it, I can tell. But the tear stains were still visible down his cheeks and he was holding himself so… stiffly. I give him the best look of sympathy that I can as I nod my acceptance of his message. Abby stirs a little as I get up from sitting beside her, as she lays stomach down sniffling into her pillow, half awake and half asleep. Tim leaves the doorway as I stretch out, and I am thankful for that. He is very…sensitive to others, very.

My own stomach does that ridiculous little spin that is now frequent since I moved here. I never experienced such err…butterflies? Yes, butterflies. I never experienced having insect toss about my stomach since I moved to America. I am becoming weak, soft even. It is something I am aware of and yet I cannot seem to shake the foolishness. Taking a deep breath as I enter the hallway, it occurs to me that even in the face of much, _much_ greater pain that awaited me at home, I never felt like this whilst waiting for it.

Never.

The pain I am about to experience would be laughed at in my country. It would be dismissed as a punishment that a small child should not care about. Well…not in my country as such, but…in my family, certainly. And yet I was never as anxious as a small girl as I am right now, and recently, I have figured out why.

Taking my fifth step down the stairs the knowledge doesn't do me any good.

The knowledge is… that since I have come to America and since I have settled into Gibbs'….team, I have come to realise that there is a mental link between actions and consequences. Before, consequences were a mere formality. I can withstand levels of pain that would make most grown men pass out, without batting an eye. But…I cannot withstand a simple sp…erm, a simple punishment…from Gibbs without sobbing like a foolish drama queen.

And that is why it is taking me so long to get down a simple stair case.

It is the look that I know will be on his face, and in his eyes. That disappointed and sad look, it is the most horrible look to endure. I can handle it when he is angry, that is no problem. When he is screaming mad with me or us, it is easier to take. But that anger is gone now, and I know when I get off these stairs it will be that sad look that looks back at me.

And it makes me want to take these last three stairs in one jump and get on the first plane back home.

But then…I remember, I am…home.

This is home now.

This is the only real home I've ever had.

Suddenly there are no more stairs left, there is nowhere left to hide. I take a deep breath, and square my shoulders. I ought not to be acting so childishly. I broke the rules, and there is a price to pay for that. It is quite simple. But…when I end up in the living room, and he looks up from the couch…the butterflies shudder quite violently. He's tired, that is the first thing I can see. He looks physically and mentally drained. It is a very rare sight, and one that makes me want to throw up on the well worn carpet.

He lifts a hand to me, and beckons me forward, pointing at that damned chair in front of him.

I hate that chair, I really do. We all do. It is what the Americans would call "the hot seat." And I can see why, but before I could not. My legs feel like that disgusting jelly Tony eats as I force them to move. Dropping slowly into the chair, I force myself to look him in the eye.

Before dropping my gaze immediately.

It is too much, there is too much in those blue eyes for me to bear.

But, of course, that is not my decision to make.

"Eyes up, and front and centre Ziva. You know the drill, you've been in it enough times."

His voice is low, and quiet. It is not the office voice. It is the home voice. There is a difference, though few would believe it, but the home Gibbs and the NCIS Gibbs are two different Gibbs'. I peel my eyes upwards as instructed and gnaw on my lip. My heart is thudding painfully in my chest, and I would give anything for this day to be fast forwarded by a couple of hours.

"Do you have any idea how disappointed I am in you right now?"

My heart sinks miserably in my chest, it's thudding now desperately trying to keep itself above water.

"I know," I hear myself whisper, "I'm sorry, Gibbs…I thought we were doing the right thing, but…I should have listened." It was a sign of how very disappointed he was that no rebuke came for using the "s" word. I take another breath, and carry on. "I should have trusted your call, and I didn't. There is no excuse, I will not give you one. But I am…sorry, I know you do not like to hear it, but I have got to say it. I am so sorry…"

My voice trails off and I feel a sharp pinch in my lip as my teeth become too violent with it. He is looking at me intently now, his head tilted the side like it does when he is deep in thought. Suddenly, I know how it feels to a perp in interrogation with the man and I feel an irritating stirring of sympathy for the more foolish, than dangerous criminals we have come across.

"I would have thought that, you, Ziva David would understand the concept of a direct order even better than the other three. I would have thought you would know when to put your personal feelings on hold, and simply do as you are damned well told. I would have thought….that after everything, you would know I never take a command decision lightly. I would have thought, that given your experience and knowing full well how things can turn in even an instant, you would have been screaming about bringing _Abby_ with you three."

He takes a deep breath as mine sticks in my chest.

"But, was I wrong? Was I wrong to think that you knew when to toe the line? I don't buy into the administrative bullshit, I don't tie you all down and watch your every step. I give you freedom to do your jobs and use your own judgment, and now…I'm thinking that maybe that's the wrong way to go. That maybe you all need a firmer hand? That maybe, my giving you leeway to do your jobs has turned you all into arrogant, know-it-all…for want of a better word, brats?"

My breath trembles a little, and simply dies.

"Because that's what it looks like to me, you know that right? It _looks_ like I have a team that thinks that it's ok to only listen to me sometimes, when they feel like it. It looks like I have another appointment with Vance tomorrow, to have my ass handed to me, _again,_ because apparently, I cannot control you lot."

He gives me the hardest of hard looks.

"Does it look that way to you too, or is it just the view from where I'm sitting?"

I am not entirely sure, because I have a painful feeling in my stomach but I think that he is asking one of those err…rhetorical questions. Before I have to work through the mental checklist of this irritating Americanisms, I am spared. It was, as it transpires, a rhetorical question.

"So now, I have to wonder where I'm going wrong Ziva. I have to look at the way I'm managing things and figure out what it is that gives you the and the others the impression that I'm to be ignored. That I'm to be obeyed only when it suits yourselves. Any ideas what that is?"

I can feel the faint taste of blood in my mouth from all my lip chewing.

"It is not like that, Gibbs," I manage to choke out, "really…it is _not_ like that."

He sighs, and the sadness increases and my heart feels even heavier.

"Hell, Ziva I know it's not," he murmurs, "I know your hearts were all in the right place, and I know it was a stupid in the moment decision. But I can't have things like that, because things like that _does_ give the impression that I can't lead my team. I don't give a rat's ass what people think of me, you know that…but if Vance gets any more ammo… _he_ is going to think I can't lead you guys. And if he thinks that…it won't be a temporary split like last time. It'll be for good, and I'm not going to sit back and let that happen."

He tilts his head. Before shaking it somewhat and beckoning me with a finger.

"I'm not about to sit back and let that happen, Ziva. I don't care if I have to tear your backside up on a daily basis, but you will _not_ put yourself in unnecessary danger and flout my authority on my watch. Now, come here and let's get this taken care of."

I feel my stomach clench as I nod. I know got a shortened down version of the talking to that the others get. I guess Gibbs knows I don't respond well to words. Which both sucks and is an advantage. He shifts back on the couch as I slowly heave myself up and cross the short distance. I hate this. I really do. I would have much, _much_ less of a problem if I could just bend over the couch and get a strapping with Gibbs' belt. Like he does with the boys, most of the time.

This going over his knee business, is horrifying. It gives me no chance to block out what is happening, it gives me no option to dissociate. I feel every bit of what I've done, and the mental connection between actions and consequences burn into my brain. I suspect he knows that, and I more than suspect that is why he refuses to treat me as he does Tony and Tim.

He wastes no time as I approach. I feel my wrist being taken in his hand as he shoots me one last and expressive look. And then, I see nothing but cushion. Even with my training, Gibbs is impressive. I'm draped over his knee, with his arm around my waist securely in the blink of an eye. Stifling a horrified yelp, I grab the nearest cushion and bury my head in it.

This cushion…has already absorbed tears tonight.

I suddenly feel a hell of a lot worse.

"I never want to have to give you a spanking for something so ridiculous ever again Ziva, if I do…I won't be starting on your pants, I give you my word."

With my head buried into an already damp cushion, his words are muted, but I catch them. Before I can even process them, a dull pain and a sharp crack coincide together. My face flushes impossibly red when I realise he is spanking me with his hand. Whatever barricades I might have crafted through my training, are no match for it. As the second and third swat falls, I am not the feared Ziva David of Mossad, the one men flee from, the one women scatter from. I'm just Ziva, from Gibbs' team.

I'm just regular, Ziva.

The pain is nothing compared to pain I have endured. It doesn't even register on the same scale, and yet it's one of the most awful pain's I've encountered. Gibbs, he's no amateur. Even through the protection of my pants there is a paint mounting in my behind as he silently brings his hand down over and over again. I know I'm over his knee for the long haul, and frankly I am too tired to resist. And too guilty.

So I just lay there, trying to take my punishment as silently as possible.

The room is silent save for the cracks that signal a swat has found its mark, but the heavier ones are accompanied by a slight hiss that I can't control. Had the exact same pain been applied in a base camp in the middle east, by some greasy mid ranks-man, I would not have batted an eye. I would have laughed. But in the middle of this living room here in DC, it draws a gasp from me every now and then.

I fear I will never truly understand why.

All of a sudden my pants are tugged down and the next swat that lands is skin on skin. I don't even blush in embarrassment. We have all been here, and no doubt, will all be here again. This is Gibbs, and I am safe. I may be sore, but I am safe. He would never do anything to properly harm me, or anything to embarrass me. I lie flatly as the pain begins to rise further, with his hand making short work of my damned sit spots, as Tony calls them.

He does not scold, he knows there is no need.

To my intense horror, as another minute slips by, tears suddenly spring up in my eyes. This is not new, this has happened before, but the embarrassment I feel from the fact remains. I should be able to take this kind of pain in my sleep, and yet, there are tears now breaking free from my eyes and running down my cheeks. He seems to sense this, and tugs me closer to him, though I know, for now, my tears are silent.

"I know, Ziva…I know," he murmurs, his hand not missing a beat, "Just breathe for me."

I am sure his words are intended to calm me, but, they have quite the opposite effect. The kindness and concern in his tone, even in the face of what we've done is too much. It splashes a clear canvas of the void that exists between my home here, and my existence in Israel. It screams the difference in what had been, and what ought to have been.

I let out a tiny little sob as the swats keep falling.

I do no squirm away from them, I never have, and that at least, remains ingrained in me.

But the tears that are swimming down my face…I cannot control.

I do not even really want to control.

I let them loose.

I let them free.

I let it go…..

 _The cracks that fire around this damned room are near deafening._

That, I can handle, just about. But the sounds of my youngest, and in some regards, my strongest, weeping across my knee…that, I can't damned well handle. My hand feels like a leaden tonne of bricks as I land it down with a stinging smack, over and over again. Her backside, like two before her, and one after her, is a deep crimson. I've reddened her sit spots to a degree that I know sitting isn't going to be a fun experience for a day or two.

And I wish, I wish so damned much that I could leave it there.

That I could just pull her into my arms and tell her all is forgiven. But I can't, and I know it. The handle of the brush that already taught Tim and Abbs their lessons looms large, and I bite my lip. Reaching out, I pull it from its place and feel the overwhelming urge once more, to throw it out the window. Instead, I wrap my hand around it for the third time and grip it firmly.

There's no point in wasting time, the sooner I get this done, the sooner I can tell her it's ok.

I bring the brush down with the same precision and force as I did with Abby and Tim, it's only fair. Her strangled yelp cuts me deep, but I raise it once more. Before…at the beginning, when Ziva first began to receive my…different discipline methods, she never reacted. She never shed a tear, she never let out a whimper. Now…now she's just about as vocal as the rest of them, and I don't know how it makes me feel.

But I suspect it's because she knows she doesn't need to put up that damned wall with me.

And if my suspicions are correct, I can breathe a little easier.

A lot easier, actually.

Eventually anyway, right now, my breathing isn't all that easy.

Not at all.

I grit my teeth and continue to dish out the well earned, yet still difficult, punishment. A stab of relief hits hard, I realise we're nearly there. Like Abby and Tim before her, Ziva's crying is beginning to fade out into a quiet weeping. It breaks my damned heart to hear it, but it lets me know that the lesson has well and truly sunk in.

After the passing of another few, torturous seconds, I bring the brush down for the final time.

Before miserably putting it aside for its last student of the night.

She immediately senses it's over and makes to scramble up. I carefully keep my hold tight around her waist and keep her in position.

"Give yourself a second kid. Give yourself a chance to breathe, c'mon now….try and relax for me…."

And, she does.

She goes limp once more and continues to cry quietly as I rub small circles on her back. I feel the similar battle I felt with Abby, but I know better than to do that with Ziva. With my youngest, you gotta wait. So I do.

I wait.

And eventually, eventually, it pays off.

She makes to move upwards once more, and this time, I allow her. I immediately turn away as I stand, and as she rises, to give her some privacy. With the illuminating yelp sounding, I turn back and as usual the sight that greets me makes me want to throw up a gut. The red eyes, the wilder than normal hair and the slightly meek expression kills me.

Especially with Ziva.

Meek…is definitely not her style.

She's a kid of few words, which is probably why I took such a quick shine to her, among other things. So I don't wait for her to talk, and I don't try and find something to say. I just look at her, and she at me, before opening my arms and raising a brow.

I don't have to wait long.

She shoots into my arms, in a way she never would have a few years ago, and sniffles into my chest.

We stay like that for a much longer time than I would usually be comfortable with, but when it's one of my girls, the usual horror of hugging doesn't apply to me. She eventually ducks out of my arms however, and smiles a crooked, watery smile that makes me almost faint with relief.

It says a thousand words, and I have no problem deciphering them.

She suddenly looks deep in thought, and I tilt my head to survey her.

"What you thinking about kid?"

The meek, however mild, expression completely slips off her face to be replaced with a shadow of her usual, mischievous grin. She points to something, and I instinctively look down, before rolling my eyes with a smile and shaking my head.

"Seriously, Ziva?"

She shrugs and lets out a faint duplicate of her usual giggle.

"Well…Tim _has_ a valid point, Gibbs."

….

A/N: Thoughts?

…


	7. From Father to Son

Damned beer looks so freaking tempting. Snapping the fridge closed and settling for water, I let the cool bottle rest in my hand for a minute. My arm is aching and my hand is throbbing. These people are trying to kill me. They're all upstairs thinking only about how much their butts hurt, well three of them anyway…but what about my extremities? Rolling my eyes at myself, I take a second to just breathe. Being three quarters of the way through sounds great and all, but knowing that last quarter is Tony I barely manage to swallow a grunt.

I hate punishing any of them, each of them for different reasons. But…with Tony, it's always a little worse cos' it's like me turning into Frank and him turning into a younger me. Sometimes I just wanna laugh at his antics with him over a beer, but I can't. And sometimes, that really sucks. Sometimes being the leader of this team blows, period. I know he's going to blame himself for all of their decisions, and I need to figure how much I agree with him on that score. As my second, I do expect him to be me when I'm not there, but at the same time…I can't expect him to be me.

Kid doesn't know how.

Not with the other three anyway.

Not yet.

Someday, for sure. But not yet.

Too close. They're too close for him to be able to do it, and I get that.

And yet, I still wanna physically shake some sense into him. To shake up the damned stellar leadership qualities he's sitting on. He'll be a great boss, Tony. A really great boss. Better than me, I have no doubt. He has an ability to work with people, that's much better than mine is or will ever be. People gravitate to him, people like him. Which is a good and a bad thing, but mostly a good thing.

But for now, he's not the boss.

I am

And right now, I'd sure as shit rather not be.

I know why Tony goes off the grid so much when it comes to potential child abuse. It breaks my cold, dead heart, but I get it. I blink, trying to push the image of his waste of space father out of my mind. I need to calm the hell down, not get riled up. Sighing, I pick at the label of the water and wonder how in the hell I'm going to handle this one. _Am I annoyed with him for not putting the foot down with the other three?_ Yes. _But is it his fault?_ Not really. _Am I pissed that he allowed Abbs into the field?_ Yup, livid _. Do I know how persuasive and downright manipulative she can be when she wants her own way?_ I sure do. _Should he have come to me if he felt unable to lay down the law to Tim and Ziva?_ He sure as hell should have. _Would I have done at his age or in his position?_ Nope, I sure as hell wouldn't have.

There's a headache brewing behind my eyes.

I really want that beer.

There's footsteps on the stairs, all too soon, and they're about half way down.

I swallow a groan, and it ain't easy.

Time for round friggin four then….

He's throwing himself in the chair that I've become used to yelling at them in, and I shove myself down opposite him. One look at him tells me all I need to know. He's guilt ridden. Consumed. His eyes are dark, though he can't bring himself to look at me. The shoulders are slumped and the chest deflated. He's a shadow of himself and it's annoying how much that makes me want to give him that rare "atta boy," and send him on his way. There will be no atta boy's tonight, and we both know it. Well…maybe later but in my defence, this kid has the best puppy dog eyes in town when he wants em.

Usually when he's in the shit with me, he babbles. Tries to talk his way out of it. He's unsuccessful of course, but still…it's his thing. This time though, there's not a word and somehow I miss the plea bargaining, the promises never to do it again, the assurances he doesn't need his ass whooped. I shake my head. I'm turning into a sentimental old fool, and I don't even have drink to blame it on right now. Scrubbing a hand across my eyes, I suddenly feel my age. I'm tired, and I don't want nor have the energy to do this.

But I don't got a choice.

"Look at me."

He does, slowly, but he does. I see the wince as he takes in what I assume is my pissed off face. But he maintains eye contact with me, and I push down that annoying little spark of pride in response. He's not here right now because he's made me proud, he's here cos' he's disappointed me. Big time. I get angry with him, all of them, frequently enough. But it takes a lot to build that brick of disappointment in my stomach, but it's there now. Well a quarter of it remains. The other three quarters have been absolved.

"What in the good hell do you have to say for yourself then?"

He flinches, and I work hard not to let the pang in my gut that happens in response show on my face.

"I don't…" he mumbles, "I just…" his tortured looking eyes grow wider, "You shouldn't have punished them, Boss…this is my bad. I should have put a stop to it. This is my bad; I should be the one to cop for it…for all of it. Not them, Tim…the girls, it shouldn't have been them….just me." He runs a hand through his hair and groans. "I'm sorry Boss…I know you don't like when I say it, but I am. I'm so sorry…"

I nod slowly, gut churning, with my mind making itself up.

He's not to blame for Tim and the girls. Not really, not this much. Not much at all.

"They all deserved what they got, Tony. You didn't force them to do it, they made their own choices. Should you have stopped it? Yes, you should. Are you supposed to be the supervising agent when I'm not there? Bet your ass you are. But that doesn't mean that you're responsible for everything they do. Maybe with a different team I'd say different. But…with you four, and how you're all made up…I can't blame you too much for not ending it. I blame you a little, but not a lot. Not a lot at all."

I can see the disbelief splash across his face, and I feel my own stab of guilt.

Did he really think I was gonna put it all on him?

Am I really that much of a bastard?

"You hearing me, Tony? I do not blame you for everything. I do not blame you for their actions. I blame you for yours, and for not coming to me. I get that you didn't think ya could put an end to it yourself, but you should have come to me when you knew things were getting hairy. When Abby insisted on going into the field, that's when you should have come to me."

He still looks dubious

"That being said, I get why you didn't come to me. I do. So really, I'm just pissed at you for what you did. The supervising part…well, that'll come in time. What you did off your own bat however, that isn't and will never be acceptable. You're not a rookie, you're not green. You know better, I taught you better so hear me when I tell you. I'm angry with you for what you did, the other stuff is less important. You're responsible primarily for you, and that's why you're in that chair right now. You got that?"

He's staring silently.

I know it's a combination of trying to digest what I'm saying, and coming to terms with the fact I'm saying so much. I don't talk much as rule. Hence the need for alcohol, my vocal chords are parched. God I really want that beer.

"You really don't blame me for them?"

I can feel that god awful sappy expression cross my face at the unsure nature of his voice.

Kid's turning me into a rocking chair swinging, tea drinking imbecile.

"I really don't blame you for them."

He apparently accepts this, and the darkness in his eyes lifts a little. I know he doesn't really think he's without significant blame for them. Not yet, but he will. With Tony, I know there's not much need for the long lecture. For all his clowning around, he's pretty self aware. I toss a hand in his direction, and raise a brow.

"Tell me what you did wrong."

I hate asking that question, as much as they all hate answering it. But answer it he will, and we both know it. Even with the saddened look he flashes. I harden my eyes to it as best as I can, and wonder how in the hell I ended up with four of the most beseeching kids for a team. It's like yelling at a pack of shelter puppies at times. No wonder I'm so wrinkled. It's stress. Stress like I never encountered in the corps. I refuse to explain the reason to myself. The reason being that whilst I did and sure as shit did care about the men under my command in the corps. It's…different with my team. Has been from the get go.

Christ they'll be using me in neighbourhood association bake offs if I keep this up.

What have I even become?

A soft fool, that's what.

The softest of soft fools.

He squirms in his seat, but I don't let up my hard stare. I know what works with my team, and showing Tony any leeway at this stage would be counterproductive. I can see the cogs turning in his head as he looks for the words.

"I agreed to and allowed a secret op to go on behind your back. I nearly screwed up a long standing investigation, I didn't come to you and continued to keep it from you and…I, I nearly got us all killed in the process."

I blink.

That was pretty blunt, but in fairness…accurate as all hell on the particulars.

Nearly.

"You _all_ nearly got _all_ of you killed in the process," I correct quietly, staring at his still guilt ridden face, "Not just you. All of you. And like I said, I'm pissed that you didn't come to me which is the extent to which I hold you accountable for the team. But…I get why you didn't. But you sure as hell better not make the same mistake twice, you hear?"

He stares at me for a second, unsure, before nodding his head.

"I hear you, Boss."

I nod then, mulling it all over. I don't think there's any need to dissect it with him. He clearly feels bad enough, and as much as people consider me a bastard, I don't do anything to further the pain of one of my own if I can help it. I can tell by him that the time for words is over, and the time for action…is here. I can see the handle of that godforsaken brush peeping out from the side of the sofa.

At least it's the last time I have to pull it out.

For tonight anyway.

I can't help the sigh that escapes me.

I know he'd rather a million times over that I just bend him over the sofa and strap his ass. I'd rather it too. Sexist or whatever else they call it, I hate putting either of the boys over my knee. I don't mind it with the girls, but with them…I dunno, too personal maybe. But…it works. When the screw up is particularly spectacular they know they don't get the personal space to deal that the sofa provides. So far…it's proven effective.

Even if we all hate it.

I guess it's a case of tough shit.

I crook a finger in his direction, and he stiffens miserably.

"Come here. You know what you got coming for this Tony, so let's get it done."

 _You know what you got coming for this Tony, so let's get it done…_

It sounded totally straight forward when the boss man said it like that, but communicating that to my limbs is something of a challenge. Maybe cos' they're so laden down with guilt. I feel sick as I slowly stand and walk slowly over to what surely is my own doom. Tim, bless his probie heart, filled me in on what had transpired with him so I've already made as much peace as I can with the fact that this is one of those…more intimate punishments.

Christ I hate these ones with a passion.

Somehow I end up in front of him, and can't help shuffling nervously. He's not helping matters by just staring at me. I stifle a moan of misery. He's thinking, I can tell…and I know better than to interrupt the thinking process. It's like the coffee run, the interrogation room and the ex wives business. You do not mess with them.

Period.

"Lose the jeans."

Only experience allows me to catch the outraged "What? Why?" before it slips out of my mouth. I know full well that Tim didn't have to "lose the jeans" before Gibbs started laying into him. So why me? Why do I have to….ahh….maybe…

"I told you I understand why you didn't come to me, I didn't say I thought that it was acceptable. That's why you're losing them now. Any other questions?" Somehow…I didn't. I don't even know how he knew what I was thinking. Then again, he always does. I gulp down a small sigh and shake my head.

"No Boss…I think I'm good."

He stares me to the furthest region of Narnia.

"Thought as much. Get them down, now."

Gritting my teeth, I somehow manage to force my hands into action. I put these jeans on this morning, with no difficulty and yet trying to take them off now was like trying to calculate the moons mass. The button is ridiculously complicated and it fumbles under my now damp grasp. Before I can attack from another angle, my face is suddenly on fire as he reaches out and puts my hands by my sides. Before I can blink, the button is undone, by jeans are at my knees and he's pulling me with a marine speed over his knee.

God…if I'm going to die young, please let it be now.

Right this instant.

The fire in my face is now an inferno as my albeit very expensive and flattering boxers are yanked down to meet my jeans. Grabbing the pillow in front of me, I throw my face into it, but instantly jerk back in horror. The thing is saturated and salty, and I have a horrible feeling I know why. Suddenly, the pillow is removed from my line of view, and a bone dry alternative is quickly put in its place.

"Better?"

I think that may have been one of the most randomly and softly kind things the boss man has ever done for me. Throwing my head into the replacement, I nod and hope he'll accept that as an answer. He does, and I'm grateful. I feel his arm wrapping around my waist and I can tell by the strength he's using, he thinks I'm gonna be squirming. I bite my lip in my cushiony bubble. That's not a good sign. That is definitely _not_ a good sign.

"Don't make me do this again for a long time Tony, I mean it. I ain't getting any younger."

I feel guilt bubble in me again as I nod slowly. It's not exactly a walk in the park for me either though in my defence. I think he definitely gets the better deal out of this hellacious bargain. If he wants to trade places then…oh god, no…no no no. The horror. The carnage. I do _not_ need that vision in my head. Focus, focus…

Jesus.

It's not hard to focus when a two tonne hand lands on your freaking ass, no matter how naturally sculpted and fortunate that ass may be. Biting my lip as the gunfire shoots around the damned room, I close my eyes tighter. The reason for the firm hold around my waist is pretty obvious. The old man definitely isn't holding back this time. Not that he ever does, not really.

But definitely not this time.

Not, in his defence, that I don't deserve it.

The really annoying thing about getting my ass handed to me by Gibbs is that…well I can't block it out. Like, I'm feeling every single slap right now, though I'm pretending not to. I don't know why I'm even bothering to pretend, I think long ago the boss man sussed through all my covers. Maybe it's a man thing, but I've got to keep it together for as long as I can. Until I can't anymore. That's the annoying thing I was talking about. The not being able to block it out…like I learned to do with Senior. He could beat me until the cows came home, and I'd never break. When I was a teenager I mean, I'd learned by then…how to close my mind off.

But…Gibbs never beats me.

Never has.

The difference might be massive, or it might be small. The pain levels aren't all that different, and yet…it's all so different. Always has been. The first time…the very first time Gibbs explained his uhm…old school methods, and asked if I'd accept it…I nearly passed out. But I was definitely looking at a suspension if not the sack if he went down the formal route. I remember shaking and backing away, and the look that crossed his face…I still remember that look. I'll always remember that look.

That look let me know, without words, I never had to worry about a Senior like experience.

God…that was years ago. Years and years ago, and here I am _still._ Still getting my ass whooped. I guess some things will never change. Though they're a _lot_ less frequent. Like, a hell of a lot. I swear, that damned conference room in work still gives me the shivers when I pass it. I used to practically live in there, trying to defend some stupid stunt or other before giving in to the inevitable. And yet…I was never scared in that room. Not after the first time, not after the look. There was a talk as well, well…as much of a talk as one functional mute can deal with.

But there'd been a talk.

Jeez, that one hurt. He's working on my damned sit spots now and biting my lip isn't going to do it for much longer. Breathing in and out slowly into the cushion as the pain starts to build, there's stars dancing in front of my eyes cos I'm scrunching them up so hard. This is so damned miserable. At least when he's laying into me with the damned belt, I don't feel bad about making noise early on. No one can get through it without getting a bit vocal, but I bet even Tim managed to get through the childish hand portion without breaking a sweat.

If probie can do it, then I sure as hell can too.

Maybe…

Ow….jeez, ow…ok ok….maybe not.

Damned hand is like something out of MI6 experiment centre. It's not normal. I think Tim actually said something about that, but he was still sorta snuffling so it was hard to tell. Oh god…there's some kind of wet stuff in my eyes now. I can't freaking help it. I still feel guilty as hell and he's really laying into me, big time. And then all of a sudden, it stops…and I can breathe. I feel relaxed for a minute, that wasn't too bad I guess. I suppose….oh jeez, earth to dim DiNozzo. There's only one reason he'd be stopping…

There it is.

That damned brush. The kind of brush that you could bring to a gun fight and come out the winner. My really must be on fire cos it feels cold as hell just sitting there.

"Do I need to tell you what this is?"

Does he need to tell….is he having some kind of sick joke? Does he need to tell me that water's wet, the sky's blue and that girl from the diner is never going to call me back? Shaking my head into the pillow, I somehow know deep down that answer won't wash.

"Verbal answer, now."

Knew it, see? I knew it.

I swallow down the weird ball in my throat. Probably too much Mexican food. I know I can't eat the stuff, but I always do. Anyways…

"No, Boss…I know what it is."

I don't need to see him to know he's doing that little nodding thing.

"Crystal clear on why you're getting it?"

I swallow again.

"Because I let you down."

I don't need to see him to know he's doing that little shaking thing.

His sigh is pretty loud, and I could swear…sort of sad.

"No, Tony…you're getting it because you let yourself down."

Didn't really get all that much time to mull that contradiction over. The brush suddenly slams down hard, and I can't help it. I really can't. I let out a yelp that surprises even me. That heinous instrument would kill in most peoples' hands, but in _Gibbs'…_ it ought to be a controlled freaking substance. The next one follows straight after, and before I can even suck in a horrified breath, he's absolutely tanning my ass. He knows me better than I know me, because he tightens his hold on me just before I start squirming involuntarily.

I've endured the plague, and…it wasn't as sore as this.

The sounds of the thing cracking off my poor butt is nearly as bad as the feeling of it. Even with my head stuck in his pillow, it's still painfully loud. Tears jump up in my eyes…and I find I don't really care anymore. The pain is getting too much to care. He's whapping it down on those damned sit spots now and I can't stop the tears as the burst out of my eyes, or the whimpering as it's torn from my throat.

I don't care.

I don't care if he thinks I'm a wimp.

It _hurts._

And because, logically, I know he'd never think that.

I can't even think anymore, the sting is flooding my mind. I can feel whatever hold I have remaining on myself, slip away. The tears are now sobs, and the squirming is now miserable limpness. I don't…I can't pretend it's not hurting anymore…I just can't. With three carefully aimed swats, catching me just below my torn up butt and with the whole deception in my mind's eye, I let it go.

I'm done.

I'm done….

 _Just a few more, and he's done. Just a few more and he's done…._

I'm being hard on him. I know that. I'm being hard as nails on him, because I know that's what he needs. He might accept that I don't blame him for what went down with the other three, but if I don't leave him feeling like he copped a serious licking for it…he'll carry that guilt. I know him. I know I can't go easy on him, much as I'd like to. Much as my heart is tugged and much as my arm aches. But…he's nearly there.

Nearly.

Wondering how much more of being a bastard I can take, I tip him forward a little and suck in some air. His ass is one hell of a shade of red, and I definitely don't want to add to it. Giving the brush in my hand a dirty look, I raise it for what I sure as hell hope will be the last time for a long, long time. But…knowing my lot, it's probably not looking at an early retirement. The last few swats smack down and it's done.

He's done.

I can tell.

He doesn't need a single swat extra.

Finally… _finally…_ I get to throw the brush across the room where it lands on an armchair, out of sight. With my now free hand, I lay it on his limp back and swallow my own damned misery. Tony…as much as it might drive me stark raving mad at times, is the joker. Always with a smile. To see him so…so deflated, just about breaks my damned heart.

Well…it hurts that part of my chest were anatomically, such an organ should be.

God I sound like Duck now.

I'm thinking like Duck.

I need that beer.

I don't say anything, cos nothing I can say is going to make the pain in his ass any better. I might hate the job, but I sure as shit did a good job in lighting the necessary fire in his behind. I sincerely doubt I'll have cause to do it again anytime soon. Well…I really, really hope not anyway. I just sit and rub a hand over the small of his back, wondering how in the hell a simple transfer from Baltimore turned into this. He was just one of my people, when he started. And I care about my people, I do. But this kid…and the other three, I…well, they're kinda mine, at this stage.

They may as well be mine.

And they're all special to me in their own way. But Tony is special cos it's like looking at a younger me. Not physically. Not that I'd ever admit it, but the kid's a lot better looking than I was at that age. But…in other ways, it's like looking back on my own past and it kills me to see him fall into the same mistakes and traps that I did. Maybe that's why I'm hardest on him, and maybe that's not fair. But…I can't help it.

I can't see him get hurt.

I won't.

He's moving now, all of sudden, as he tends to do in these situations. Rising alongside him, I tend to my not so tactful straightening of furniture with my back to him. It's not long before the miserable yelp tells me the jeans are back where they started. I know what I'm about to see when I turn around, and I know the sick feeling it's gonna stir in my gut. Biting my lip, I just do it.

Yep.

My guts stirring.

Red eyes, red face, wild hair…sad expression, meek eyes, shuffling feet.

I open my mouth, but I don't have anything to say. I don't know what to say. He's looking at me, and before I know what I'm doing, my feet are moving of their own accord. Landing in front of him, I can't help it. He's so…so sad looking, I just can't help it. I pull him into a hug.

He resists me for a second, as he always does.

Surprise, I guess.

But then he melts, like he always does and I feel a tiny stab of relief, like I always do. Rubbing a hand through the spot I usually whack, I sigh. Maybe I oughta cut him some slack. I'm just…well, let's just say that cutting Icarus slack probably seemed like a good idea at the time, too. Usually I'm not comfortable with hugging the boys, but this is different and I'm more than ok with the kid taking the time to sniff a little on my shoulder, his face still damp with tears.

But he eventually breaks away to rub his butt and looks at me with those damned puppy eyes.

"Won't happen again, Boss."

The doubtful look on my face had the kid grinning a shadow of his usual grin.

"Well…anytime soon that is."

Rolling my eyes, I feel a ridiculous leap of relief that he's semi back to his kidding ways. I never want to…break him, in any way. Throwing a hand on his shoulder, I feel weary as all hell. It's not that common for me to have deal with all four in one night, and I am beat.

Not as much as them, but beat nonetheless.

"We ok?"

He looks at me, and I see nothing but truth in his eyes.

"We're good, Boss, we're good…"

He smiles slightly, before frowning. "Tim said something about uhm…non-corporal punishment as well." Looking slightly scandalised, he tips his head to the side. "What…is it? Are you going to make us clean the evidence locker again? Because Boss, please, I'd rather die. Do you know what we found in there the last time?" He shoots me an accusing glare, and I have to bite my cheek from bursting into laughter. "It was alive, that's all I say."

I shake my head slowly.

"You're all going to volunteer for next weekend's community outreach programme for recruitment."

He looks seriously relieved.

"Oh…that's not that bad, I guess. Deal."

I have to bite my cheek again.

"And for the next five weekends after that."

He looks seriously outraged and horrified.

I have to bite my cheek again.

"Boss…c'mon! Haven't we suffered enough? You can't _do_ that man…"

I raise a brow.

"Oh can't I, Tony? You're sure about that? Would you prefer I pick up that brush again?"

He backs down hastily with his charming grin firmly in place.

"Naw Boss…your arm must be killing you. It's ok."

Rolling my eyes, and murmuring a sarcastic "thanks for the concern," I place a hand on each of his shoulders and lead him to the bottom of the stairs. "Go and get the other three. I might be a bastard, but you all still need to be fed. "So…" I sigh, knowing I'll regret it, "Why don't you pick something to watch while I ring for a takeout?"

The gleam in his eyes is kinda worth it, before he seems stricken by a sudden thought.

"Boss?"

God, I'm so tired. I don't even want that beer now. They're killing me, slowly, but surely.

"Yeah, Tony?"

His eyes flicker across the room and I can tell he's not sure how to say it, whatever it is.

"Where did you even get that damned brush? It's ancient, and well… you only ever use a comb…"

Memories of years gone by instantly reel into my skull. I can't help the stupid half smile that crosses my face, or the hand that reaches out to ruffle his hair. He's freaking adorable at times.

"It's the one my father used with me, son."

…..

FIN

A/N: So, that's that! Thank you for coming on this adventure with me! For a first time writing in the first person, it was a blast. Thanks for bearing with me while I found my bearings with it! Hope you enjoyed.

-Inks

…..


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